Once I Lost You
by indiefran
Summary: Chryed. Based on an alternative ending to the scene in the flat on Friday 15th July. Will breaking up allow them to reunite? Reviews are always appreciated, thank you.
1. Prologue

Prologue 

"Now your stuff is over there and the rest is in the wardrobe."

Syed stills, taking in the carelessness of the tone and the sight of Christian moving to walk out the door.

"That's it then?" he hears himself say, the flush of anger still insignificant enough to come out as a quiver. "You've got your stuff, you've left mine. That's it?"

"What do you want me to say Syed?"

"I want you to say you care, that this matters. That this matters to you like it matters to me. This is us, our home - well it was until you decided to move out of it. It's my home. We have a fight, I come back and you tell me the boxes are mine and my clothes are in the wardrobe? You speak like I'm no one, like none of this even matters to you, like you can just separate our things and it's as simple as that."

Christian sighs, shaking his head quickly.

"I haven't got time to get into this Syed."

"You haven't got time?"

Syed feels his voice rising now, the panic and the pain a physical lump in his shaking throat.

"I dedicated two years of my life to this, it's everything to me. I put it above everything, we both did, gave up everything, and you say you haven't got time for it anymore? The social worker may be coming at four but I thought maybe you'd want to give your fiancé ten minutes. I hoped."

"I haven't got time for it because it's pointless. You're never going to want a child if it hasn't got a mother. I know I'm gay and _I'm _not filled with self-loathing for it. Gays aren't capable of raising kids, right? Shouldn't let the perverts near them. I got it."

"How can you even say that, how can you use that word against me like you know my own parents have and make out I think it. That what I'm feeling is as simple as that."

"I haven't got a clue what you think Syed, it seems to change daily."

"Except it doesn't actually, it's been pretty consistently unsure if you bothered to listen, if you didn't just hear what you wanted to and ignore the rest."

He breathes, noticing the tightness in his chest means his lungs need reminding. Christian remains standing at the door, though Syed takes some comfort from the fact he hasn't walked through it, that the box of abandonment he is holding is now at least partly resting on the table that hasn't yet been moved.

"I should have been clearer, I should have spoken more," he tells him. "It's not like I consciously kept things from you or lied though. I just didn't know...I don't always know. I'm not always good at this and I'm sorry. I understand why you were so upset, as much as a surprise as it came I know how much you want this. I would never ever want you to not have something that you wanted, let alone be the person keeping that from you. All I want is for you to be happy. Why do you think I was so scared to talk about it?"

"So this has all been you keeping the peace?"

"Partly, yes. I mean it's not like I knew how I felt the whole time, knew anything to properly keep from you. Maybe I don't even know it now, I might just need some time. I don't know. But yeah, trying to keep things going, trying to be what you wanted, to protect this, that was there too. Not wanting to damage this, this thing which is everything to me. Maybe that's childish or weak or whatever else, it probably is. Keep calm and carry on, right? Clearly you're right, I haven't exactly come that far."

"I never asked that of you Syed."

"Except you sort of did. You do every time you do something without consulting me, every time you take positivity and crush me with it because there's no room left for me to think. Every time you sulk when I express something you don't want to hear. It's not just you, I'm just as much to blame. I'm clearly doing something that would make you act like this, I don't know what that is. All I know is I don't want to hurt you. Hurting the people I love most in the world is the last thing I would ever want to do. For me anyway."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Syed considers it briefly, unfamiliar with the concept of holding others to account. He hadn't planned to. His mouth seems to be sensing something coming, like this is final, and the words find themselves coming out.

"You weren't the only one who got hurt yesterday you know. The things you say to me sometimes...I don't understand them. I know people lash out when they're hurt – I've lived with it for almost twenty years, I've definitely done it myself. I can't get my head around saying those things though, now we're so settled, that they always seem to be your first response to me saying anything that you might not like. I mean maybe I deserve them, I don't know. I wish sometimes you could just listen, that your first impulse isn't to attack me, or that you'd at least care that you do. I probably deserve it, I don't know. It just hurts, it hurts when you say things, when others do..."

"I assume as she just left you're talking about Roxy. What do you want me to do, put her on a leash. She's my best friend, a good one. She can say what she likes."

"And she really does."

"As opposed to the people around you, you mean? Your mother, the definition of demure and tolerant."

"You say that like I don't know, like I enjoy it. I hate it, I hate every moment where anyone I love hurts the man I love. My mum has said awful things to you. And I stand up for you, every single time, without hesitation. I know that you give as good as you get, say whatever makes you feel good, often to me no matter how it hurts, and I know defending you damages my relationship with mum a little more every time, but I do it. From the very first time I did it, without breath. Because I love you and I can't bear to hear bad things said about you or to know they're said to you. I can't bear to think of you getting hurt. The thing is, I don't know if I can say you feel the same."

Christian tuts, ignoring the painful things, those parts that need reflection. He isn't in the mood to look at himself today and he knows he hasn't been for a good twenty years. He decides to latch onto the easy bit again, the bit that can be turned back around on the one that he loves. He decides and it's barely a decision, he's barely aware that it's done.

"So we're fighting about Roxy? That I don't pick you constantly over her, that I'm not as good at defending your honour as you are, that it?"

"You know it isn't that. It's all these little things, the big things, all mounting up and I don't know what to do about it. It's about..."

Syed hesitates, his tongue heavy with words that have almost been too painful to have been permitted to be thoughts. He puts his eyes to the floor and says them quietly, unable to do anymore.

"..._losing you._ I feel like I've started to lose you, the real you. You used to care when I was upset, that I was hurt. You cared how I felt. It was never perfect, we'd fight and I was usually as good at talking as you were listening, but I never doubted you cared. Not for a second. Even in the worst darkest moments I never doubted that. It's different now."

"I don't love you anymore, is that it? How you can even think that I have no fucking idea."

Christian's voice is rising and Syed's gaze shifts back up with it.

"I've messed up enough over the years to know love isn't quite that simple...it's how you act, how you make someone feel."

Syed stills again, needing to take the pain of it as he stares at frosted green eyes. It comes in almost a whisper;

"You were my person. The one that knew me, loved me, like no one else ever did. Not someone who would never hurt me, neither of us managed that, but you were the one who tried not to, who cared when you did. Whatever we did, we figured it out together. We did, because we wanted to. When did you stop being my person? I can't even bear to think about that."

"Probably around the time I realised that you were still putting everything else ahead of me. Your family, your bullshit beliefs, your fear...anything else other than what's best for us, you've put first."

"Your version of putting other things first Christian is giving them any consideration at all, of caring about anything other than this, of having my own feelings that may actually be different to yours."

"It's not like I don't know about the other things Syed, like they're not imbedded into my skull. We've been dealing with them long enough after all. It's about you Syed. It is always about you."

"It hasn't been about me for a very long time Christian. This isn't a relationship. It's a one man show with someone along for the ride to keep you warm at night. You say we're a team but it only seems to work for you if you're the boss and I'm taking the orders. That isn't a team."

"Or one you want to be a part of, you mean?"

"I didn't say that, I would never say that. I'm not the one saying you're not enough, dividing our things."

"It's utter shit anyway. I have never given you orders."

"Orders don't have to be direct to be orders - they're not all 'have a child with me now or go'. They can be a constant pressure, a refusal to listen, to go at a pace you both want to. I feel like I'm drowning here, I feel like I'm drowning. It's been months and it keeps getting worse. It's like I'm drowning."

Syed shakes, reaching a hand out for the wall as some sort of stability.

"I love you. I love you with every part of me but I don't _know_ what to do anymore. I've been working on this, trying to figure out what's going wrong, trying to fix it. Relationships are work, aren't they, they're about compromise and working through the bad bits. Except it's turning into a full time job. The thing is I would do, dedicate every minute to this, everything I have and more...if I thought you would do the same. If I thought you had been doing, that this really mattered to you anymore. You fought for me, you wanted to marry me...now it's like that means nothing."

"I'm allowed to have other things that matter. You should know that more than anyone."

"It isn't the same as when that thing you want destroys everything, as when you treat the one you love badly because of it, when you prioritise it above everything. I know the difference Christian, I've lived it, I've done it. You had to deal with it for long enough, I would have thought you could tell the difference too. When I left them for you – and I did if you've forgotten, only a year ago – I made a promise to let you be, to treat you, exactly as you are...the most important thing in my entire world. People can have other things, they should do...but not like this. Not if you want them, if at the end of it all, they are the centre of you, that thing you can't imagine living without. I was that for you. I was. I can't have dreamt it."

Christian finds himself silenced, suddenly finding it difficult to tell himself this is the right thing, remembering who it is that stands in front of him looking at him like that. Suddenly it is painful and he can't form any words at the sight of those eyes.

Syed gains nothing from the continual silence and his heart falls flat as he murmurs;

"Maybe we should take a break, some time out or something."

"Some time out?"

"Just some space. Figure out what we're doing. It's not like you can say you're happy right now. I thought I could make you happy, I thought I was, but I'm clearly not. I don't know what to do...maybe a break is all there is."

Christian nods, voice flat.

"Why just stop there?"

"What?"

"You want to go, you go."

"I didn't say that."

Syed watches as Christian opens the door.

"Yeah well I did. According to you there really isn't anything to stay around for anyway."


	2. Chapter One

**Thank you very much for the lovely reviews for the start of this story, they really help. Breaking the boys up is never nice, but it seems very fitting with where the producers have taken us, and as long as you all want it (please do let me know how it's working for you) I'll do my best to write the path that canon seems to be screaming out for, but is instead opting for unhealthy relationship limbo. This chapter is an angsty one - but call me old fashioned, a Chryed break-up should be no other way. Love to hear your thoughts x **

* * *

><p>Syed pulls the coarse thinness of a shared sheet over his head and closes his eyes slowly. His chest shakes slightly, aching with the first breaths. For a second he had forgotten, actually forgotten, and he wonders how with the dig of foreign springs and the absence of large warm arms that were possible. Three days have passed since it ended, or at least he thinks it has. It ended. He knows that much. He reminds himself of the news kindly, physically unable to return to the fourteen hours when he had convinced himself that perhaps this was fighting, that this was just what passionate couples did sometimes, that in a day or so it would be okay. Christian lashed out when he was hurting and would say things he didn't mean. He didn't always say the right thing to him or understand how it all works. They loved each other to the point of fire; their bodies couldn't bear to not be holding, touching one another. This was just a fight, a bad one in a long line of late, the painful product of a combination of things that made up them. Syed rubs his hand through his hair, scratching the scalp through the scruff to force some feeling and remind himself that those thoughts had got him nowhere, that the early hours of delusion were there to comfort you, they were not there to be clung to. He hadn't called, he hadn't knocked, and Syed shut out the gentle voice that promised that was just because he didn't know where he was.<p>

The walls housing him were painted in clean Magnolia and he was grateful for it. There was no stench or disturbance of neighbouring stranger's yells or moans and he had taken something from that when falling into a rented bed with the knowledge of nowhere else to go. This time he wasn't a thieving teenager or a failed husband lost in the dark. He was a failed fiancé with enough money in his pocket for a clean room and a bed. Progress was being made. It meant little. The fact was that he was homeless and he was alone, when he had lulled his head into believing he would never be that again. He curls his legs up against the mattress, wrapping his arm tight around his knees. In this second he wishes he had taken himself to the family house, that he was with people that loved him, that he could be cuddled by his mum. He knows with sense that he wouldn't have been able to bear it, that despite a lack of cruelty meant, she would have been pleased that it was all gone. He couldn't bear for anyone to do anything but mourn it, or to ask for comfort from those he had hurt unimaginably for what now seemed to be no end. He feels the shame of it, of sacrificing everyone for just one, someone he had stupidly believed would never leave. Squeezing his legs to his still clothed chest, he isn't even sure if he was the one that was left. He remembers on a blur it was him that walked out the door but can see it being opened for him, hear words that were said that meant it was desired for him to go through it. All he can think of as he lays there is how it was only a year ago that he had stood in the street and asked him to come home.

A vague buzzing sounds through the pillow and he tells himself it's his phone, the rhythm of his heart quickening rapidly as he leans to grab it and register the name. Tam. The pit of his stomach dips achingly and he feels as if he is losing something all over again. He doesn't answer, but on the third go he feels guilty enough to re-learn how to form words. It comes out hoarsely.

"Tam..."

"There you are...well not really, I don't know...where are you? I went round to the flat and Ian said you'd moved out?"

Syed feels his chest tighten at the confirmation of what is happening and regrets instantly having picked up the phone. He isn't ready and he murmurs what truth he can.

"Yeah, we er...it all happened kind of quickly."

"He said you were at Janine's old place?"

"Well, yeah...Christian is."

"But you're not?"

"No."

"Right. Wait. Why?"

He stumbles through the words quietly.

"Because...um, we...Christian and I, we...we broke up."

"What? That's insane, since when? Why?"

Tamwar registers the following silence and asks something more logistical.

"Where are you Syed?"

He bites his lip, swallowing hard in an attempt to re-gain a flat voice.

"At the B and B."

"What, with dad?"

"No, no. I couldn't handle that. The one on the high street."

"What happened? I don't understand, you were fine. Mum even got on board, well slightly. You two were..."

"I've got to go Tam. I've got to... "

His voice is breaking and he can't hear any more of what is being said.

"I'll call you later okay, don't worry. I'm sorry. Don't worry."

"Syed –"

* * *

><p>He opens his eyes gradually, the weight of them greater than he is used to, sticky with the damp and crisp of crashed out sleep. He can't think how long it's been but thinks perhaps an hour and is trying to piece together some sense of in and out dreams when he notices the drum on the door.<p>

Through sleep and flimsy wood he hears the muffle of a familiar voice;

"It's me – Tamwar."

"Tam?"

He crawls out of the bed, his legs shaking slightly as they remember how to walk. A hand over the door, he creeps it open slowly. Tamwar pushes it, in a perfect combination of force and gentility, and invites himself into the stuffy, dank room with a terrifying show of purpose.

"What are you doing here?" Syed stutters, unable to get a grasp of things or, despite the lack of strength used, stop the door from opening. "How did you get up here?"

"The woman let me in. The lady, the tubby one with the hair."

"She just let some random up to my room?"

"We're Asian, we're all related."

Syed sighs, already half defeated.

"What are you doing here Tam?"

Tamwar looks at him, standing small in a three day old crumpled black t-shirt and the bareness of boxers. His face is darkened from a build up of stubble and the grey lines shadowing worn out eyes. There are tear marks on his cheeks and it is a hollow look he has seen before.

"I've come to see you," he says. "To see you're alright."

"I really just want to be by myself right now."

"Well I don't want you to be."

Syed shakes his head and begins to move back to sit on the sanctuary of the bed. He discovers he has little energy to fight and murmurs almost pleadingly to the sheets;

"I really just need... I can't. I'll call you later Tam, I promise, I..."

"I can take you home. Mum will be okay..."

"No Tam."

"If you won't come with me, let me stay."

"I just need the quiet, to just sleep or..."

"You shouldn't be by yourself."

"Why?"

"I don't want you to hurt yourself!"

Syed looks up quickly, the tone and the sentiment startling.

"What, why would you..."

"That's what happened last time. Last time you broke up that's what happened. You look the same. You sound worse. I'm not stupid, I remember what happened."

Syed's stomach aches with the realisation. He feels guilt that he ever did something that would result in the fear stretched on his little brother's face and a need to push down the memories of it for his own sake, to ignore any similarities to now.

"Tam...I'm sorry," he stumbles. "I would never, ever...not again. I promise."

"No one ever plans to break a promise, they just do it. You didn't even mean to do anything last time, you were just upset."

"Well I won't, okay. I swear," he says with certainty. "It hasn't even crossed my mind to go to the off-licence let alone anything...I would never. It's different now, I'm different."

Tamwar relaxes slightly, sitting himself awkwardly on the edge of what he debates to be an unhygienic bed.

"I know," he mumbles, fingers mirroring Syed's in tracing the line of the sheet. "You're sad though."

They sit. There is nothing that can be said to that.

"Where are you going to stay?," Tamwar interjects to the silence. "Half of my family's in a B and B, it's getting ridiculous."

"Here. It's fine."

"Well what about the old flat? Couldn't you rent that?"

"A new tenant's probably moving in, besides..." Syed says, the words quietening as they're said to the bed, "I don't want to be there without him."

"I'll be fine okay," he reassures them both, opting for the long-held tradition of hoping saying it will make it true. "I'm going to put my jeans on and I'm going to get my stuff...and I'll figure it out. I'll figure it out and I will be okay."

Tamwar lifts his lips slightly, doing that confused pained expression that Syed knows is his attempt at support. His head is suddenly dipped down into the cushion of a small shoulder and he feels the tight squeeze of arms around his back. He pauses awkwardly for a moment before pulling a hand out to return the brotherly hold, telling himself the seconds he stays like that is for Tamwar's benefit and not for anthing else.

* * *

><p>Syed places his palm on the door of the flat and though he hates himself for the cowardice, considers instantly running out of it. His mind can't take in the emptiness of it, how a home can within days be broken and sparse. It was everything and now it is nothing, and the only bit left of them is a cleared kitchen and a stripped empty bed. He leans slightly, his body suddenly weaker, before shutting the door quickly in a bid to keep the secret from getting out. He doesn't want to be here, but he has an unexplained feeling of not wanting others to walk in either, not to see what has become of it, them, not to infect or spoil the smallest signs that may be left. He tells himself that he can go soon, he just needs to collect his things and he'll be done. He is unable to focus for a second on the truth that to be done is the last thing that he wants.<p>

Walking in a few feet slowly, he finds it in him to look at the boxes scattering the room. Christian had told the truth. Syed's things were waiting for him and he presumed, if he looked, would be sitting in the wardrobe too. They sit neatly, packed up and divided in painful simplicity. Syed can't look. He tries to understand the mindset of the man that had said he loved him as he put his things in each box, as he calmly rolled his prayer mat and folded each of his clothes. Syed wonders what he had done to make such a thing easy, what he had said to make that sweatshirt he wore to cuddle on the sofa in the evening just another meaningless piece of cloth.

He finds himself making his way across the bare carpet, standing at the foot of what last week was their bed. It's the same and different, mocking and tempting all at the same time, and his feet take each step leading up it without a second thought. His body presses into the familiarity of it, squashing himself into the mattress cold from the missing bedding, and above all, body. He remembers the day when they bought it, silly fighting in the market, an aftermath of being told he was loved, he was loved, and that his love could never want anyone else. It was the start of everything and he has no comprehension of how they are now at the end. All he can think, as he squashes himself into the half-comfort of the bed, is that they will never be back here, and as he remembers the first shyness of a time to the laughter of forever in a summer afternoon, he cannot breathe at the thought. His legs are refusing to move and he lays there, noises that seem barely recognisable shaking out of his throat. Time is nothing and he lays there, he can't be anywhere else.

In the back of his mind the door is rattling and he hears feet, achingly familiar in their pace and weight, starting and stopping at the entrance of the flat. He drags his head up slowly, murmuring the only word that has been sitting on his lips;

"Christian."


	3. Chapter Two

Syed stares at him, standing as if he is there because he had wished it, because he is here ready to come home. He reminds himself, wilting from just the sight of him, that it has been a long time since what he asked mattered and that there are no bags or boxes being held in returning arms. He moves to sit up quickly, wiping his hand shamefully over his eyes. He rubs them and he hates it, the weakness, how quickly the one he exposed himself to like no other has become the one from who he now hides.

"I thought you were all done," he says, the thought leading him to try for some form of control. "What are you doing here?"

"I was going to say the same to you."

"I came to get my stuff. You left it all here if you remember."

Christian winces, though does his best to make it as if a response was never visible. He hates hearing that tone, the one that he is fully aware means Syed is hurt and struggling to know how to cope. He despises himself just less than he should do for causing it, though settles on the comforting default of how difficult this all is for him. He's the one that has to look at it, to see pain etched on eyes he had repeatedly described as the most beautiful he had ever seen. Syed didn't even have the courtesy to say it as if he is angry. He wishes he'd yell.

"Yeah well...I forgot something. I'll leave you to it as soon as I find it."

"Okay."

Syed stays sitting on the bed as Christian passes him, unsure he would be able to stand without doing something sense might tell him he should later regret. He lets his head turn as he walks past him, strangely relieved when he disappears to another room. In this second he is flooded with a feeling of the past, one he never thought he'd have to face again; that inner tug of his mind that ached when Christian wasn't near him but ached no less when he was near but not his to touch. There is not one piece of that thought that he is able to cope with and quickly drags himself to the nearest box.

"Is my prayer mat in there?" he hears himself call, playing the part of something civilised, a civilised ex who can't bear to look at his boyfriend's face.

"Yeah it's here."

Christian emerges from the spare room, seemingly following the same role as he passes the mat over gently, careful to avoid crossing thumbs.

"And my Koran?"

"Usual drawer," he answers quietly. "I didn't move it."

Syed stills for a moment and for the first time in three days properly looks at him, relieved to see a temporary softening to his face. He can't decide whether he's been sleeping, considering fondly how little natural gorgeousness has ever been affected by a small matter like that. He notices that he's wearing his long sleeved black tee, the one he'll wear when he's feeling sensitive or needing the comfort of cloth. Syed finds himself fleetingly relieved that he is in need of comforting, before simply aching that the one he loves is hurt.

"Thank you."

Christian turns quickly at the softness, resuming his search with manufactured purpose, telling himself this is normal behaviour, that it's all fine. Syed dips his head, feeling suddenly as if he shouldn't be watching and reminds himself he has boxes to move. He walks into the spare room to the wardrobe, bending to take back the Koran and prayer beads before grabbing an arbitrary selection of clothes. He has no idea what Christian put in the boxes and has no desire to check. He never wants to think of him doing it, making a range of calm decisions of what of his should be moved. His hands find themselves grabbing a few random t-shirts, a spare pair of jeans. There is no desire to do this properly or cast his eyes for a second on hanging clothes that only a few days ago were draped with larger ones belonging to someone else.

It's quiet when he comes back through the doorway, pausing briefly under the inexorable feeling that something is going to happen, that suddenly someone will speak and put a halt on what is apparently happening. As if a noise is all that is needed for sense to resume, to blow away this unnatural divergence to their lives that has cruelly crept in. His lips consider moving but they still pained from the last time and at this point have no grasp of what they would say. Christian is doing something – pretending, Syed supposes, he is not here. He suddenly feels stupid that Christian need opt for the pretence, unsure why some boxes and spare clothes are of such importance either must endure this. He decides to get out quickly, to grab some things and let himself leave. There is a small voice in him that says he should tell Christian what he has decided, that remnant of his mind that still thinks they are people that do things together, that doesn't understand the concept of one going one way and one the other. No one told him of the etiquette for narrating the moving of your possessions, and he is aware that even if they had, it would not fit with them. There can't be rules for this. There can't be a thing that makes it normal for him to be lifting a box filled with bits of his life as Christian cleans the kitchen counter, seemingly unbothered to watch.

He squashes the clothes into a randomly chosen box and begins to lift it unthinkingly, forcing his legs to take it towards the door. Christian lets himself turn slightly, the focus of his eyes hidden by their dedication to Syed's back. He watches intently as Syed heaves his possessions along awkwardly, the back of unkempt hair ruffled with the strain. On impulse, Christian feels he should be moving to lift one of the heavier boxes, a mundane task that his arms are used to, from seeking to impress with supplies in the Unit to teasing with work supplies in the flat. He does nothing. He watches as he struggles with one and then another and he stands and does nothing. It is not purely that he is an arsehole but that playing any part in the removal of Syed from his life is not something he can bear. There is the smallest piece at the pit of his gut that is aware he has already done his considerable bit for that.

He goes to busy himself at the sink quickly, refusing to be the victim that sits patiently on the sofa with tears as he waits to be left. Christian tells himself as he forcefully wipes an eye that crying in the kitchen is something else entirely. The opening door rubs on the carpet and he stills at the sound, aware it's close now, that it's almost time. He listens to the accompanying shuffle of familiar feet, waiting he knows for him to do something, to play along. He finds himself hating them, not just for threatening to take themselves away from him, but in their sound being a reminder of all those times they took themselves to him. When they rubbed calves looking for warmth in the barely morning, when they walked to their new home having given up everything, when they shuffled sleepily into sheets with two cups in hand after dawn prayer. He worries suddenly about who will make Syed breakfast now, who will stroke his cheek until he gives up the fight and wakes back up for work. He worries over the important things for at least a moment, until he reminds himself that he doesn't care.

Syed finds himself standing in the doorway, watching as Christian randomly opens up kitchen cupboards, unsure of what in these moments you are supposed to say.

"I'll come back for the rest later," he stumbles upon, adding "...when I've got somewhere to move it to" with no attempt to hide his need to check if he cares.

It almost works, Christian turning to say as flatly as the lump in his throat will allow;

"You're not back home? I thought Zainab would be ecstatic to hear you finally got rid of me."

Syed wonders fleetingly if he had got rid of him and if it was okay to ask politely if he could have him back please.

"No," he says instead. "I haven't spoken to mum in days...and I'm not staying there."

"Well I guess I'll know when that happens by the sound of shrill jubilation and the sight of celebratory bunting."

"I'm at the B and B for now," he replies, because despite it all he knows him and that those lines mean something other than what the words said.

"Okay."

"Not Denise's, the one on the high street", he adds, "If you needed me."

Christian appears to pause at the idea of it, his mouth near falling to draw Syed one foot step further.

He is suddenly acutely aware that if he were asked he would stay here forever. With a whisper from Christian's lips, he would abandon himself to this floor or go anywhere. If it were requested his bags would find themselves falling, the boxes and remnants of will abandoned with them. If he were kissed, he would wrap his lips and let them be taken. He would give himself to be made love to with barely a murmur, and he would do it daily as barely a form of torture. It would be though, a tiny voice of sense whispered to him, to have it all left unfixed and for it to continue regardless.

"Well my new place is looking great. I'm set actually. Once I find this I'll be done," Christian says, as if being kind, as if knowing a small voice of sense was not enough to end this for Syed, he needed his.

Syed considers telling him that he hopes he finds what he is looking for, but is unable it seems to think of words. His heart suddenly aches, tighter and harder than it has ever had to, and as he wonders how that were possible he feels as if his legs might fall. They don't. They just stand there...because things end, people break-up, those that love you stop.

Syed is fully aware as he closes the door that when it comes to them, his heart will forever refuse to believe that, and it does so without hearing the whisper of "I love you" murmured to his back.

* * *

><p><strong>Good news for those that are now suicidal is that was the last 'break-up aftermath' chapter and when we come back (which will be a bit longer than three days, sorry!) it will be set some time later. <strong>Thank you for all the lovely lovely reviews so far - so great to hear what you think. <strong>**


	4. Chapter Three

**Thank you to those lovely people who left a review for the last chapter. As promised, we've moved on in time now (avoids repetition and it gets them fixed quicker!) - as always, your thoughts are great to hear thanks! A bit nervous as the therapy is reaching acute therapy stages... **

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><p>Christian grimaces, his eyes half opened to the sunlight piercing the slats and the drum beat pounding the back of his skull. The three brain cells that are still living try to fumble through what happened, clambering to fulfil their role of stringing together flashes of noise and lights in the dark. He thinks he would be used to it again after more than a month, that his body would have understood this is what it did now, that that year and a bit of difference was fleeting and never something that was going to stick. Slowly, he registers that a weight is dipping the other side of the bed and he turns his head tentatively to see a squashed passed out face. 'A pretty one' he concludes, at least. Christian sighs, rolling himself flatly onto his back. His mouth tastes like cheap vodka and unfamiliar man and suddenly he wants nothing more than to be alone. He tells himself this is because he is bored, that he has had his fun and is ready to discard the cause. It does not mean what was pleasure is now pathetic or that the speed in which that changes is considerably greater than it used to be.<p>

He lifts an arm out of the crimson sheets and pokes the body next to him.

"Hey," he states roughly, "I've got work."

There is a grumble and the figure turns gradually, squinting from the shock of the awakening and the creep of the light. The first glance was right; he's pretty, ridiculously young looking, and pretty. Christian remembers to congratulate himself on that.

"Shame", the voice mumbles, moving dutifully to get out of the sheets. "No classes, I'm on holiday - could have stayed here."

"Yeah it's a shame," Christian says on default, having found the old lines with alarming ease. "Wait - what?" he stutters, turning his head with a speed he regrets. "Class? _Tell me you are fucking legal._"

"Jesus how young do I look?"

It's said with a laugh, though Christian feels little like returning it.

"Take that as a compliment, you'll want it in twenty years," he says flatly, feeling older as each word leaves him.

"Yes I'm legal, no I'm not at school," he tells him, adding with the impression of reassurance, "I'm first year geography at LSE."

Christian shakes his head slowly, unmoving from his back spread flat on the bed. He considers pulling the sheet over to hide his face and supposes he should be grateful at still possessing the sensation of what is something like shame. The sickness he feels in the pit of his stomach is the aftermath of the vodka though, he tells himself, and not for a second an ache at the thought of what _he _would think.

"Don't you remember last night?" the voice continues. "You said it made me exotic and that you wanted to see how many countries I could name as you blew me."

"Charming."

"Twenty seven if you'd forgotten," he murmurs low, as if trying for something. "I told you I was impressive."

"I'm sure."

He is watched as he moves at the subtle hint of being ignored, Christian prising one eye half open to monitor him swinging a leg over the bed and beginning the hunt for his clothes. He had probably been keen last night, why wouldn't he be, must have appeared as if he lived in these places, knew exactly what to do, as if he had been born to it, or had done it enough times to act as if he had. He must be a disappointment now he thought, though he was unsure if he cared.

"Have you seen my boxers?"

The strained voice takes him back to where he was. He manages some form of answer;

"Try the floor."

"Good idea."

Christian turns his head on the pillow slightly and pauses at the sight of a bending arse. He's alive, he reminds himself, and stares at the shape of it as it curves in the search for clothes. The bit of his heart that he has allowed to keep working, perhaps due to its link with his groin, gives him a flash of golden taut perfection that makes this otherwise fine one look a mess. The memories his mind cannot begin to think of are the disciplining grumble of 'You threw them somewhere, Christian you always throw them' or the heart-pulling smile that would stretch to light his eyes as he turned.

"Michael," he hears himself say.

"Are you talking to me?"

"Who the fuck else would I be speaking to?"

"Mitchell."

The curve disappears as he turns, half smiling;

"That being my name."

"Shit, sorry," Christian exhales, and he might mean it. "Vodka brain. Mitchell, of course it is."

"Don't worry. If I wanted that sort of attention I'd let my mum set me up with her librarian's son. If I wanted to be fucked, I'd let men like you invite me home."

He stills as he wonders what a man like him exactly is. It hurts there though and he opts to concentrate on the bits he can handle, the bits that will bring him passing pleasure.

"That I can do."

"I thought you had to work."

"I lied."

He grabs him, pushing his dry tongue into an eager mouth, running his hands along skin and flesh, the taste and the touch giving something as his heart thumps a beat.

"Are you sure?"

This is where he should be murmuring with arrogant swag that 'I can fuck you so hard _you_ won't even remember your name' but the words don't slip from his tongue. He doesn't know if he's being looked at doubtingly or if it's in his mind but the words aren't coming so he just flips him around. It worked it seems, as he hears a quiet moan from under him, sees the arch of a white back dragged off the sheet.

Christian notices the lube at the base of the bed, where he supposes he had left it, and grabs it, murmuring, "Get a condom. Top drawer."

"You're out," comes the depleted response.

"Ur...bottom draw. There's spares."

He hears the slide of another drawer and the familiar but delayed fumble.

"Who's this?"

"What?" he exhales, leaning to take over the search.

"An ex-boyfriend?" it continues. "Or the current one? He's not going to come walking through the door is he?"

Christian registers a silver frame being held and stills suddenly, staring at a chosen snap shot of happiness he had stored away at 2am weeks ago, close enough for comfort but hidden enough as not to add to hurt. The wind is blowing stray dark curls onto that face that is smiling, dipped into his neck with laughing protests that shake lips into his skin. They kiss there as much for love as teased hiding, a cold beach in him, like there is nothing else.

"Do you like Asian guys?"

Words are being spoken he thinks, his mind staring at a stranger's hand, a stranger's hand marking it.

"He's gorgeous."

Christian murmurs;

"Put it down."

"What?"

"The photo," he shakes.

"What..."

"Just put it down, leave it. Just leave it!"

* * *

><p>"You can leave it all or change it. It's lovely Syed."<p>

Syed smiles thankfully, watching Tanya do her best attempt at making moving into a flat alone seem a positive thing. He thought someone should.

"I love the bathroom," she calls. "Might be nice to put your own mark on things though. If you fix up the back wall here it'll be perfect. Maybe tile it?"

"I don't know..." he wanders.

"Greg'll do it for you. I'll make sure he gives you a good deal," she smiles with an encouraging glint as she emerges back out to the living area.

Syed wonders how he can tell her that he doesn't want anything doing to the flat, that doing something would imply this was permanent, that this was his home now and not just somewhere to stay temporarily before he got back to his real life. She'd been so kind and enthusiastic, and considering they hadn't known each other that long had volunteered readily for man analysis and general comfort. Other people spoke of redecoration and he'd barely been able to think about leaving the B and B. If it hadn't have been for Tamwar's increasingly furrowed brow of concern and the fact that the payments were leading to near bankruptcy, he'd still be there now. The flat was a decent distance at least, close enough to walk to work but not so close as to have to face daily sights he couldn't bear. The part of him that remembered caring about property told himself this made complete financial sense, that he had got himself a brilliant deal on rent, that grown men needed a home. The rest of him that only cared about one thing knew his real home was sitting above a chip shop, and he needed to be reminded often that no one was there.

"Maybe. Thanks," he managed politely.

"No one thinks badly of you, you know."

Syed looks up quickly at the statement.

"You getting your own place, unpacking your things..." she explains gently, "What's it been now, five, six weeks? You're allowed to do it. It doesn't mean you gave up, that you don't care."

"No?" he asks genuinely. "What does it mean?"

"That you're letting yourself try and get on with your life. That you deserve more than being miserable or being in limbo."

Syed shuts out the knowingly unhealthy voice that tells him he would take misery and limbo with the man he loved over misery and moving on alone. His mind must be visibly wandering as Tanya tries to grin;

"Now you're single, I might have a go. One obstacle down, just a minor one to go."

He wants to laugh for her, but ends up confessing instead;

"I don't even think of myself as single."

He shakes his head at himself.

"That's really pathetic, isn't it?"

"No. No of course it isn't. It shows how lovely you are...and how important the relationship was. That doesn't go away...believe me. Have you spoken to him at all?"

"Not a word," Syed says flatly. "I see him sometimes, on the way to the gardens or the gym...I know his routine though, I try and avoid it. It's too hard... Sometimes I see him and I want to talk to him, well I mean I always want to talk to him, but sometimes I think I should. Roxy's usually there though and..."

"She's doing her best impression of a guard dog?"

"I wouldn't say..."

"Well I would. A bulldog...chewing a wasp most days. Ignore it. If you want to talk to him, talk to him. She may think she's in charge, but she isn't. Just go and talk to him, eh?"

"I think I might have said enough," he murmurs, before stopping his head running over the list of things he had let spill out the last time they spoke and which one could be blamed for striking the final blow.

"Ignore me, please. I'm being maudlin, I'm sorry...it's the lack of food."

"Oh yeah, course...not that you're being maudlin' or if you were that you wouldn't have a good reason to be...but the starving won't help."

"We prefer fasting rather than starving..."

"Sorry," she whispers, putting her hand over her mouth. "Was that offensive?"

"I'm joking," he manages to laugh.

"Ha good. I don't know how you do it. Though..." she runs her hands along the curve of her waist, "...it might take a couple of inches off."

"Stop it, you're perfect."

"Aww," she smiles. "Being gay eh, least you avoid mental women asking you if their bum looks big in this..."

"I don't know, men can be just the same. Christian used to hate it, moan how I could eat anything at my age and that he was getting podgy. I'd have to convince him that he was imagining things and that he was gor – "

Syed's words dry in his throat and he smiles apologetically.

"But yeah, fasting has it's good and bad sides. Actually, now you mention it I'm pretty knackered. I think I might make the most of no clients this afternoon, try and rest for a bit..."

"Oh course," she says, grabbing her bag off the rented beige sofa.

"Thank you for coming to look at the place, it was really lovely of you."

"Don't be daft, any time. Besides, gave me a chance to nose round."

"Not exactly much to nose around..." he says, glancing at the minimal surroundings.

"You've only just moved in," she smiles in reassurance, "Give it time and you'll have made your mark on the place. It'll feel like home."

Syed smiles back politely before pressing himself against the shut door, unable to quash her kindness with the truth that anywhere without _him_ feeling like home is the last thing he could ever want.

* * *

><p>Christian leans on the door slightly, pulling it open before turning away. He doesn't need to check who it is beyond a glance at peroxide strands, the routine as such as it is now engrained. He knows that he doesn't need even this briefest of glances to be aware who it is that was knocking, and tells himself there is nothing depressing in that. It would be funny, if he were capable of the laugh, that nothing used to bring more simple pleasure than the rattling of keys in the door and knowing his one person was about to walk through it.<p>

"You look rough," he hears Roxy announce.

"You look like you put your make-up on with a trowel."

"Christian Clarke, you bitch."

"I'm here all week."

He turns in concession, giving his best impression of a smile.

"I'm also hung-over."

"I'd picked that up. A good one was it?" she asks, with that raised eyebrow and pitch of her voice that's requesting details, like this is fascinating, like she actually believes this could be defined as good.

"Up and down."

"You can get a pill for that."

"You're funny today."

"Someone's got to be. Is he still here anyway?"

"Who?"

"Whoever got you up and down?"

"God no, it's midday, what am I?"

"I thought the plan was to, and I quote, 'have a fitty every morning through August with the sun streaming on my perfect chiselled face, because I fucking can and they will be lucky to have it'?"

Christian winces.

"Yeah well I speak shit when I'm drunk. Feel free not to ever quote any of that. Ever."

"No I admire your optimism. I don't know how you're getting laid at all Christian."

"Excuse me?"

"You're gorgeous but babe, you've got a face like a smacked arse. I say this because I love you – you gotta smile. It's getting miserable."

He sighs, dragging a hand over his sensitised face.

"I know okay, I know. It's just the hang-over cycle. Your body feels like shit, you're a misery. I just need a few days off, sort myself out."

"No you just need to sort your head out. Go out, get drunk, have fun with me, have fun with whatever fitty you want to find, but stop thinking about him. It's him that's making you miserable."

He says quietly, the truth no easier weeks later;

"He isn't here Roxy."

"Exactly. He left you. He broke your heart _again. _He makes you miserable when he's here, he makes you miserable when he's not. He's more trouble than he's worth, he always was. What you need is someone fun, someone who's going to make you smile."

She leans up to place her hands on his cheeks.

"I miss that Christian Clarke smile. That one when you're getting us into trouble, when you've got a bad little plan. And some vodka."

"I've got that..."

"Come out with me tonight."

"No Rox, I can't. My head's still pounding..."

"But I can come tonight," she pouts.

"So I'm supposed to go out based on when you've got a sitter for Amy?"

"Yes."

He finds himself laughing, knowing he'll cave in seconds.

"It's hard when it's Amy's number one bestest baby-sitter who I want to go out with."

"So who's taking care of her tonight?"

"Her dad."

"A radical idea."

"Hey when you've got yourself a little one you'll know how it feels."

"Yeah..."

"So what do you say then?"

"What?"

"Coming out tonight?"

"Fine," he concedes. "But Vauxhall."

She groans;

"It's sweaty there."

"I want sweat."

"I don't."

"Well considering biologically no one anywhere we'll go is going to want you, that doesn't really matter."

"Fine, but I'm not standing outside a cubicle trying not to see whilst you get blown okay. Not again."

"Believe me darlin', that turns me on even less than it turns on you."

"Funny. See, you're funny again!"

She jumps up as he turns, striving for a half piggy back as she hops and gleams;

"This is going to be _so good._"

"Yeah," Christian replies, and he almost believes it himself.


	5. Chapter Four

**Thank you thank you for the reviews! When dealing with the evil topic of Chryed break-ups, it's especially great to hear that it's going down okay. If you're still reading, love to know what you think x **

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><p>The pathetic practicality of a 'lasagne for one' dropped itself into his basket and Christian compounded it with a hand full of others, strewn randomly from the shelf without a glance. He never ate ready meals; he hadn't done it during decades of being single. He made sure he was doing it now though, slotting it next to other acts of masochism as walking by the Masala Queen stall daily to look for Zainab's victory smirk and keeping his eyes open as he fucked. At the beginning, he'd eaten pork for six days solid in some form of protest but had stopped when he realised he was a child; he'd never really liked the taste anyway.<p>

He walks in familiarity to the corner of the shop and lets his hand reach for the large vodka and its friend, just to keep it company. This was not, he told himself as he heard the clink of the glass, the first signs of alcoholism. He wasn't a tramp in the gutter or someone who poured a liquid other than milk on his corn flakes. He was a man wearing leisure wear everywhere he went who was going through a phase of making cocktails with no other ingredient than a single spirit, in his home. It had been six weeks and two days and now the senses were not being half numbed until the start of children's TV. He was practically disciplined.

There's a vibration in his pocket and he shoves a hand in lethargically to get it, not particularly enamoured with the thought of hearing Roxy moan or the sound of any other person who would actually call. He flicks it up to his face, squints under the florescent lights and pauses at the name. Jane. He tells himself he can't deal with that right now, ignoring her and the little voice that says nothing good is coming from keeping doing that.

"Oh Christian, are you heading for the breads?"

He turns with an eye brow raise to see Denise, arms full of loaves and a waiting expression on her face. The phrase 'Do people head for breads?' skimmed his tongue but he reminds himself not everyone likes a bitch and that was a small point of which he should care.

"Maybe. I'm hydrating at the minute."

"Right. Well, the bread stocks are low, the delivery never came. Moron. Anyway, we've got no bagels."

"Bagels."

"Yeah, you always buy bagels. The plain ones, third shelf. Bagels."

Christian stands there, a tightness crossing his chest. He is standing in the middle of the aisle and is mute, fully aware he has lost movement over a word to describe a piece of bread. He watches as her face changes slightly, a look of realisation flashed with what he suspects is pity.

"It's not you who..." she starts sympathetically, and the back of his heart cannot bear that she thinks he deserves it.

He murmurs flatly;

"I don't need bagels."

* * *

><p>"I don't need you to say anything," Syed snaps as he blusters through the salon door. "I know, I know. I'm late."<p>

One foot on the base of the stairs, he pauses at a gaped expression; Poppy staring back at him like he'd stabbed a puppy she forgot she owned.

"I'm sorry," he sighs. "It's me, I'm tired and late. Sorry. You're doing a really great job."

She smiles, curling her hair between her fingers in consideration of how gay exactly gay was and Syed launches himself in an attempt to race up, awash with the continual feeling that he is doing nothing right.

He hates being late, a dislike perhaps attributable to growing up with a mother who raised blood pressure based on time. He seems to be late the past week, returning to some sort of routine but not achieving it in the way he should. The milk goes off, he's four minutes late for prayers, and when the alarm fails to go off he reminds himself that he cares. It doesn't feel real yet, and the floated sense from fast assists in keeping him that edge from thinking, of anything other than sleeping through a barely there row of hours. He's aware the fast should make him feel other things than dazed and he should not be using it for that, but he finds himself forgetting to eat much for Iftar and he isn't reminded because no one is there.

"I'm so sorry for keeping you waiting," he murmurs apologetically as he opens his door.

"Oh it's fine," a voice smiles, getting up from the waiting chair.

Syed looks up at him, late twenties, dark thick crop on olive skin, and the broad shoulders of a defined man contained in a suit, and he realises suddenly he's never met him before, that he's not only late but late for a client he doesn't even know.

"I wasn't feeling well, I just went home for a bit..." he decides to explain, before realising he really won't care.

"Oh I'm sorry, do you want me to re-schedule. I'm at the solicitors on Redford Street, it's no bother to come another lunchtime."

"No no, please...that's really kind but, it's fine. I'm really sorry to keep you waiting. It's Munir, right? I'm Syed."

"You are," he smiles.

Syed shakes his head;

"Obviously you know that, you booked..."

He hears a gentle laugh.

"No I meant...we sort of met before."

"We did?"

Syed reaches across to flatten the sheet on the table.

"You used to go to Walford mosque, didn't you?"

"I recognise you," he adds, and Syed realises the nerves he finds himself feeling must have left him visibly halting. "I used to see you with your dad and your brother. I mean not anymore..."

"No I moved," Syed says hastily. "I mean, I changed...because er..."

"Change is good," he smiles kindly.

He pauses a moment, adding slowly;

"I'm glad you found somewhere else."

Syed feels eyes pause on his moment before they shift, the tone changing quickly;

"So, I have this strain below my left shoulder –"

"Okay."

"The GP says there's nothing technically wrong and my partner – squash partner, that is –" he adds, pulling at his tie, "says I'm trying to make excuses, but it just niggles, kind of stiff. Maybe I'm just tense, I don't know."

"Okay well I'll see what I can do."

He threads his shirt past his shoulders.

"I'm sure you'll be great."

* * *

><p>Syed feels terrible, and as he pushes his way out the salon door, forcefully breathes in the air. The massage oil hadn't helped, and the ache that has been tingling through him is getting too much to ignore. He just needs to sit down, he tells himself, and out the corner of his eye the bench is calling his feet. He lifts his head to it, telling them where they're intending and then his heart stops, his heart stops for half of a second because he is there. It's him.<p>

He hadn't even registered he was by the salon, and as he fixes each breath on dark staring eyes, Christian hates himself for that. Of course he would be there, _fucking stupid_. It's his job and he's allowed it, he's allowed to exist without him, or so he imagines that's what he's supposed to think. He grips into his palm, his fingers taken with the shape of holding onto something precious, a cheap plastic bag with vodka in it dangling down hard. He should walk away, he thinks, and almost desperately he attempts to remind himself that he is angry, that he hates him, he hates him, and that is exactly what there is.

Syed exhales quickly, his legs screaming at him to find the safety of the seat. He doesn't want the safety though, he wants to stand being stared at, feeling like he is vaguely wanted, even if it hurts. His head is starting to cloud though and sense for a moment wins out. His eyes break away when forced from those watching, and he walks forward, heavy then stumbling, stumbling then nothing until all there is is the warmth of arms.

"Shit Sy…!"

That name, his but always belonging to another, takes his head from the cloud. He's being sat down, he feels it, residue warmth of oak resting under his thighs.

"Sy, are you okay?"

Christian stares at him, trying to see as he dips his head down. He crouched quickly, and before caution tells him otherwise, he strokes a hand along the soft stubble of that face. It is impulse to see him, though as tired eyes look up from dark lashes, he finds himself having to pull away.

"I said are you okay?" he repeats instead. "Syed?"

Syed shuffles slightly, registering the closeness as his mind clears itself with the rest.

"I'm fine," he says quickly.

"You're not fine, you fainted."

"I didn't faint, I stumbled."

"You almost passed out. If I hadn't caught you you'd have hit your head."

Syed looks at him and whispers flatly;

"Thank you."

Christian leans back slightly, realising he's closer than the rules or Syed's tone say he should be.

"I'll get Yusef –"

"No, no you won't," he insists. I stumbled, I'm fine. I'm just tired and hungry. It's hot and I haven't had water since three." "It's Ramadan," he adds, and Christian doesn't know whether to be slighted by the harmless inference he had forgotten.

"That doesn't normally change anything, I thought your body got used to it. You were fine last year –"

"Yeah well this isn't last year."

They pause, Syed shaking his head slowly.

"I mean…I mean I must just be feeling unwell. I'm fine. You can go."

"At least let me get Tanya…"

"I'm okay. Honestly. You don't have to stay."

Christian nods quickly, getting himself up without forming a word.

He looks at him, grey lines shadowing under depth of beautiful eyes and he orders his heart not to worry, tells it that soon enough his mind will find a memory that convinces them both that he has no need to feel guilty, that last year Syed had looked just the same.


	6. Chapter Five

**Thank you for the reviews! Love to hear what you think. **

**I swear Christian and Syed will talk to each other soon, but until they're ready, they'll talk to others... **

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><p>There are stains on the ceiling. Dark ones, sticky even, that morph into animals when you stare. Christian squints, suspicious of the elephant with a badger on its head that's looking back at him, and he considers whether he's been lying in bed too long. He's alone at least, or he's not, he is truly not, as he works through a row of constant aching thoughts each laced with him. It was easier to pretend when he didn't see him. Not easier in that it didn't hurt, but an ease that came with not having to look at him, to remember he existed and that if he was not the pathetic fuck up he always was, he could in all practicality go and get him. He never thought he'd envy the former version of him who was helpless, who had his chance at happiness taken by loyalty to bigots, who had wanted to destroy the world as he told each and every person of the injustice of it. He didn't know how easy he had fucking had it, that at least in losing the most precious thing that had ever existed, no part of him then was whispering <em>well you did it. <em>

He rubs his hand over the stubble running down his jaw slowly and he breathes. He can't stop the image of him crouching on the bench; it has been there behind his eyes for three days and four nights. It isn't simply that he now has to acknowledge he exists, but that in his existence, he has that look on his face. Christian tells his conscious a range of lies to make things better for himself. It was actually hot that day, he didn't look that bad, or only messed up people who enjoyed suffering signed up to religious crap like that. Yes, that was it, he'd stick with that. He had had no hand in it and whatsmore it was proof the choices Syed clung to were destructive pieces of shit.

He jumps suddenly at a vibration, as if the bile of the thought had an impact, that it was buzzing through his brain. It's his phone, he realises to only part relief, and he sighs at 'Jane' flashing up once more. At this point, he wants to avoid nothing more than his own brain, and answers, though it might be regretted.

"Jane."

"Christian!"

He balks, pulling the phone from his ear.

"Jesus. Why are you yelling?"

"I thought you were dead or something."

"Why would you possibly think I was dead?"

"I don't know, the fact that I haven't heard from you in about seven weeks. You know I've been calling you."

"We're related Jane, we're not joined at the hip," he answers lamely, pulling himself to sit up in the bed. "Besides, I text you."

"What, that one sentence that you were busy at work?"

"Yes. That one."

"I didn't know why you weren't answering when I rang. I called Syed and –"

Christian's breath catches;

"You called Syed?"

"Yes, when I couldn't find you I –"

"Why the hell did you do that Jane?"

"Because he's your partner," she says as if it is obvious. "He didn't answer either which made me more worried."

He says flatly;

"Well you shouldn't have called him."

"What's going on Christian? Why's it strange for me to call Syed?"

He stares at the empty side of the bed and mumbles vaguely;

"Because he's not here."

"What he's at work?"

"No…"

"At mosque?"

"No."

"Are you going to make me list all the possible places Syed could be Christian or are you going to give me a sentence?"

"He's not here –"

"I know you said –"

"He's not here," he says, louder.

The words come slowly;

"He's not here. Not like he's gone for milk or he's gone to mosque. He's not here…he's not here, like he's not coming back."

He says quietly;

"He left, Jane. He's gone."

"Christian I…" she stumbles, "I don't know what to say. When? When you stopped picking up the phone I guess… Why then? Why did he?"

"You want me to recount why it is he abandoned me, list the reasons I became so fucking unbearable to live with, why the thought of spending his life with me was suddenly…"

"No, I… Oh Christian. I'm so so sorry. I can't believe it. He loves you, he loves you so much."

He says flatly;

"He loves his family, Allah… I'm just the boyfriend, the one that got in the way, never quite fitted."

"You don't believe that."

"Don't I? If you love someone you want to have a family with them, that's how it works. He didn't want that with me. I'll be a terrible father apparently, and he's pretty much repulsed at the idea of raising a child with me."

"Did he actually say that?"

"He didn't have to."

"Well he sort of does…"

"Whose side are you on?"

"Yours Christian, yours," she presses. "Always. You know that. I'm just trying to understand… This family stuff, you mean the adoption right?"

"Yes," he says slowly, rubbing his hand along his scalp. "I thought this would be different. I thought this would work out, not like the surrogacy –"

"Surrogacy?"

"Yeah we…"

Christian realises, with a thought, him and Jane hadn't exactly spoken about this.

"We were thinking of doing surrogacy, a while back," he attempts to summarise. "I didn't say anything to you at the time because it all happened kind of quickly and you were going through crap with Ian, particular levels of crap, but it just…well Roxy offered –"

"Roxy?"

"Yeah. It just sort of happened, we only tried once…"

"And how did Syed feel about this?"

"He was fine…"

"I thought you said he wasn't…"

"Well he was," Christian snaps, his head remembering in part why he had been avoiding this for weeks. "Okay he wasn't at first, but then he agreed, well we were going to go through an agency and find out more, but then Roxy offered and she was ovulating so it seemed like it was meant to be or something. He was stressed at first when he found out but –"

"When he found out?"

"Well, yeah…He didn't, I didn't…I just sort of did it, not _it_ obviously, sample in a fridge, but we were going to anyway, this way we just got what we wanted quicker, he'd have been fine…"

Christian pauses, his mind almost hearing the words that his mouth is saying.

"So he didn't know you were actually doing it?"

"It was negative anyway. We decided to wait, just be us for a while…but then it seemed like it was right not to wait. His family were being, well, themselves, and I still wanted it and it seemed…we could be a family, it felt right. He said he wanted it, but then he was having these doubts…"

"Doubts?"

"Only sometimes, then suddenly all it is is doubt and he's telling me he doesn't know if he wants it. We're literally about to get a kid and suddenly he doesn't want it."

"But you're only just starting the process, right? I mean I remember how long it takes…"

"Yeah but…"

"They say the first few months are as much about figuring out how you feel as much as social services finding out about you…"

"And we didn't need to figure anything out," he snaps back, his voice raising. "We knew, that's what you feel when you love each other, when you actually know what you want."

"Christian…"

"You don't know anything about it..."

"I'm trying to –"

"No, you're telling me I'm to blame. Stupid Christian, fucked up again. You never really thought I was capable of it anyway did you? Loving someone, sticking with them, making it work."

"That isn't fair..."

"Well I guess I proved you right, didn't right?"

The button is pressed and the phone slammed, Christian sending it spirally to the edge of the bed with a thrust. He exhales deeply and his chest tries to calm from the shake.

* * *

><p>The spiralling brown floats in the white of a catering cup and they stare, entranced.<p>

"Why are we in a café?"

Reverie broken, Syed looks up, watching as Tamwar's finger rubs in familiar confusion along his glass' line.

He states dully;

"It's the café. Everyone always goes to the café."

"Not if they're Muslim and it's Ramadan. It's a bit like an alcoholic meeting in an off-licence. Well not literally, the opposite really, but like an analogy."

"I got it."

Syed lifts his lip at the corner, taking the spoon to fiddle it melodically along the cup.

"I just thought it'd be nice to get out."

"The new flat's okay isn't it?"

"Yeah the flat's fine."

"Fine?" Tamwar presses.

"Good. The flat's good."

Syed dips the metal slowly into the stiff caffeine.

"I'm considering tiling the bathroom."

"That's nice."

"Yeah I thought so."

"In the meantime we're in the café though…"

The spoon drops and Syed's hands flail up;

"We can go if you want to Tam!"

"No no it's fine. Not odd. Normal. It's fine."

Tamwar stares awkwardly, glancing at his brother, the table and then back again.

"Why do we have a cup of coffee?"

"A new type of masochism. That and Ian wouldn't let me sit down unless I bought something."

"Even stingy to family…"

"Family?"

"Well, brother-in-law…in law. Well, ex 'cos Jane left him. Twice ex actually because…"

Tam sees Syed's face fall and jumps quickly to a new topic;

"Have you spoken to mum lately?"

"Why, she okay?"

"For mum. Just thought you might have…"

"A bit, not that much."

Tamwar considers, with the morose abrupt tone of that, he is best being quiet.

"Afia okay?" Syed switches with a quick smile.

"Yeah, you know. Wife like."

"Is that nagging or perfection like?"

"The latter. Obviously."

"Obviously."

Syed pauses for a moment before looking up at him, stating earnestly;

"You're a fine husband Tambo. All grown up and in love... I'm really happy for you."

Tamwar shuffles slightly, squinting under the show of emotion and one he doesn't know what to do with.

"I want you to be happy," he finds himself saying, regretful when he sees an ache shimmer over Syed's eyes.

Syed wants to be able to tell him he is, protect what will always be his little brother, squash his share of the worry lines wrinkling over Tamwar's brow. He can lie to him about the little things, make mundane contented statements about tiling that suggest the bigger things are soon to be worked out too. He can't find the words to say he is happy though, knowingly such a distance from that state it would be a new type of pain to pretend it were true.

"I think I caught a bug last week," he says pointlessly. "Made me a bit lethargic."

"A bug?"

"Yeah, a bug. I think it's working at the salon. A mix of people, someone's always ill. What do they say, 'the business would be even better if I didn't have to see the clients'."

"That's what you think of us is it?" a voice laughs gently above them.

Syed looks up;

"Munir."

"Hey."

There's a flash of a smile that Tamwar would suspect now means he is blinded, if the sight of a suit clinging to unfeasible breadth of shoulders was not burning itself into his enviable head.

"I was joking just then," Syed clarifies, "I –"

"Don't look so worried Syed, I got that."

He glances at Tamwar, gesturing;

"Sorry to interrupt."

"Oh you're not, don't be silly. This is Tamwar, my little brother. Tam, this is Munir, a client."

"We know each other briefly from mosque actually, hi Tamwar."

"Oh yeah, I remember" and Tamwar considers whether Munir was one of the men he used to point at to doubt the 'Asian men, we're the best, but not so much the muscle type' lie his dad would offer as a lame attempt at teenage reassurance.

"Your brother's saving my squash game."

"Is he?"

Syed laughs shyly;

"Two sessions in, I'm not sure I can claim credit for that."

"Well I'll offer you it. You can take it if you like."

Munir smiles, in a soft sort of way Tamwar can't quite understand, and he shuffles, getting himself abruptly to his feet.

"Talk work, I've got to go anyway."

"No, don't, you guys were –"

"It's fine. I've got to get back to the restaurant, Afia, she's there alone."

"His wife, newlywed," Syed translates.

"Ah."

There's a brotherly nod as Tamwar slides out, leaving Munir to sit himself down, slipping his suit jacket off as he does.

Syed pauses, giving a friendly smile to fill the space.

"Do you want this coffee?"

"No, thank you. The fast, you know."

"Yeah. Sorry I didn't mean to assume you weren't..."

"It's fine," he murmurs kindly. "No, definitely observing. I'm a good boy. Well, most of the time."

Syed's eyes find themselves darting down, his lip curling into a quick smile. He is suddenly unsure what to say next, which is strange he thinks, as as a client Munir has always seemed perfectly nice. "Why are you in a cafe?"

He curses himself for that effort, adding;

"Sorry that sounded so rude..."

"No it's a perfectly sensible question. I er...I want to say that I was feeling particularly committed and thought I'd really test myself but that'd be a lie and there's no lying during Ramadan right."

"Right," Syed says, returning the humoured smile.

"I was heading back to work and I saw you come in here. I saw you come in and I wanted to talk to you."

"Oh okay. Are you not happy with the treatment? We could try another technique if it wasn't work-"

"No Syed," he laughs, re-stating softly and slowly as if it needed explaining. "I wanted to talk to you because I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to ask you if you'd go for a coffee with me sometime."

"Or a non-coffee, you know, if in the next week," he adds and Syed realises he must be visibly dumb struck. "Or we could just sit and stare at caffeine that we can't drink, if that's your thing."

"That's really..." Syed starts, "I'm really flattered Munir, I just-"

"It's okay, you don't have to..." he shakes his head, mercifully. "I'm not offended. Well obviously, I am, deeply, but I'll try and get over it. I just thought I'd try my luck. My mum tells me I'm a catch – good job, nice flat, own hair... She means for second cousins who are, y'know, women, but still, I think it's transferrable. Or maybe it's not and that's the problem."

"No I'm pretty sure it is. Transferrable, I mean, not the problem."

"Can I ask what is?"

"I'm sort of...involved."

"Involved? The girl at the salon, the one in pink with the hair..."

"Brunette? That's Poppy."

"Blonde."

"That's Jodie."

"Right, well, Jodie, she might have mentioned that that guy you were seeing, the famous one who walks in mosques and causes stirs, she might have mentioned that you broke up."

"Those two gossip like hens."

"And gossip's unreliable and this should teach me for listening to it?"

"No it's...it's right," Syed admits, reluctantly. "It just sort of...misses the details. The bit where I'm nowhere near ready to even think about seeing someone else. That boyfriend...he was my fiancé. He was..."

Syed pauses, unable to find words to finish that thought.

"I'm just not ready."

"Well I guess that's a pretty good reason. I'm sorry," he says softly, "That you're having a tough time. It's not easy, this stuff, for anyone, but our stuff, it can be...difficult. Though relieved in a way," he adds, jovially, "At least the reference to my mum thinking I was 'a catch' isn't what soured it."

Syed smiles, with what he suspects to be the sound of his laugh;

"You're not alone, my mum used to tell me the same thing. 'You're the most handsome boy in all of mosque Syed' and other such motherly lies."

"I don't know. I can't imagine she was wrong there."

Syed flushes, his darting eyes grateful when Munir turns to reach for his jacket.

"You've got my number at the salon," he says, standing up, "If you ever need to just talk or escape the house."

"I don't need to –"

The softness of his voice falls;

"I find when I'm spending time in noisy public places that sells food I can't eat, I'm not really that happy at home."

Syed turns his head, watching as he smiles kindly and begins to walk away.

"I'm going to mosque tonight," Syed hears himself say. "Maybe you could come?"

Munir turns, smiling low;

"I'd like that."


	7. Chapter Six

**After getting a row of such thoughtful reviews, I wanted to write a quick chapter today. Thanks so much to all who are reviewing, they are each lovely and helpful in continuing. We're building... **

* * *

><p>"That smells amazing."<p>

"Yeah but at this stage that isn't much of a compliment. Something that once resembled a cat would probably look appealing."

Syed laughs, dipping his head with what he is almost sure was a smile. He watches as Munir studies the oven thoughtfully, sniffing the oven gloves and crouching to investigate signs of burning. This is nice, he thinks. He'd had to convince himself to go, had changed his mind twice as he shoved on something random to wear and walked quickly so as not to panic and find himself back at the flat. It was only Iftar, just a casualness of food with a client that had asked. He was more than a client, probably. A friend, the beginning of one at least. He could do with that. He'd decided, as Munir had filled the normally tedious tube ride back from mosque with a tale of the time his Aunt had tried to set him up with her "slightly butch" niece, that this was probably something that could be good. He had missed this, speaking to another, the relaxation that came from a friend that had parts like you. The simplicity of walking into a mosque with someone, them knowing your name, and you, at least slightly, and have the smile they gave you remain. He hadn't even realised he had missed it, he supposed because there had been something wonderful in its place. It hadn't had the shape to slot in perfectly, it never could, yet somehow it had filled every space nonetheless. Maybe not every…but enough. That was gone now though, Syed had reminded himself, and there was nothing wrong in taking fragments of things to try and piece together something that could fit. When Munir had called and asked him if he fancied dinner, saying yes had almost seemed like a normal thing to do. It was nice to be somewhere, anywhere other than the imitation of a home he paid the bills for, and though the need of it still surprised him, it was nice to talk to someone...to hear a voice and see them look at him and smile. It felt strange though, that he was somewhere, with someone, though as the voice at the back of his mind told him when his nerves needed it, he wasn't _with_ someone like that.

"Do you want me to do anything?" he asks, shuffling his hands in his pockets. "Lay the table?"

"It's all done thanks," Munir says, bouncing back onto his feet. "You're very domesticated."

He turns to look back at a hovering Syed, smiling with a pause;

"I like that."

Syed's lip twitches, his fingers distractedly rubbing the inside of his jeans.

"Not that domesticated," he murmurs. "Well maybe…just a little."

"You're special, obviously."

Munir turns, reaching to open up the bread bin.

"Asian men can be generally useless around the house," he adds, giving Syed something crusty to slice next to him on the counter. "Too much time being told we're king of the universe, too many sisters being told to clean up."

"My sister just refused. Mum used to tell her no one would marry her. Shabnam would scream whatever answer she'd read in whatever teenage feminist handbook she was reading that week."

He adds wistfully;

"There was generally a lot of screaming."

"Ah families," Munir echoes.

He watches subtly as to his left Syed meticulously cuts rings of bread.

"So your mum trained _you_ instead?"

"No…I just sort of did it. Well, when I wanted to. Shabnam just got more of an earful though because then it was –"

"'Even your brother can do it, see? And you there, my daughter, making him do that?'"

Syed shakes his head with a smile, the put on Pakistani shrill making them laugh with the truth of it.

"Yep, pretty much."

"I doubt we're the only men who grow up like that. I think I'm just used to gay ones...my friends are all walking stereotypes. They cook, know where the hoover is, pluck… Are your friends the same?"

"Oh…I…" Syed pauses a moment, rubbing his thumb along the counter. "I don't really have many gay friends…none actually. That sounds really strange."

Munir looks at Syed's teeth nibbling at the bottom of his lip.

"That doesn't sound strange at all."

"No?"

"No course not. We don't all have to walk around in packs. And besides, it's different for _us_ sometimes anyway. We have other parts to ourselves, it's not like God made us just for this right? Plus being sober on the scene isn't exactly fun…and not everyone gets it."

He glances over, clarifying;

"It's not just the Muslim part of our community that can't their head's around the other half. It just takes some time that's all. You start to date, meet others through them. I came out at 23 and I didn't know anyone. Met David, my first, through squash actually. Ten years later and everything's different. We broke up pretty quick but we're still friends and I met others through him. Did you not go out much with your ex's friends?"

"Not really..." Syed says quietly. "He never really introduced me…I guess maybe they weren't those sort of friends…or I wasn't that sort of boyfriend. We did once but… It was just the two of us really."

There's a moment of silence and Munir shifts slightly, noticing the way Syed's eyes are falling to the floor. He chastises himself for the stupidity of mentioning the ex, and tries to think of something that will bring back that smile.

"Tell me about Tamwar," he says cheerfully, grabbing a spoon to stir the contents on the hob.

"Tam?"

"Yeah. He just got married right? Did it go well?"

"Well…"

Munir laughs;

"That good huh?"

"It was good…and a disaster, like most Masood occasions. You don't want to hear about it."

"I do."

"Really? It's a long story..."

"It's not even sundown for twenty two minutes."

He reaches to pass over the olive oil;

"We've got plenty of time."

* * *

><p>"Time!"<p>

"Fuck off Mitchell, no way was that time."

Christian ducks, a half manicured nail clumsily slapping him around the head.

"Yes it was. You're cheating."

He flounces backwards, the sofa cushion catching half the impact of the wall. He's past the point of feeling though; the numbness was after all the aim.

"It's my flat. My vodka," he says with flat petulance. "I can cheat if I want."

"Ten men you've done, ten places. One minute," Roxy repeats, "They were your rules Clarke."

"I did it you dozy cow, I got ten."

"Nooooo," Roxy screams, elongating with insistence into his ear. "No no, names were missing. 'That guy, the guy with the arse' is not a name Christian. It is a DESCRIPTION, a poor one at that."

"It's a good one. Accurate, and it got all the important details."

He throws a hand out, squashing her face in the removal of it from his.

"No you wouldn't pass a line-up, y'know, a thing, you couldn't spot someone in a line up with it so it doesn't count."

"I could," he says, his tone falling serious. "I'd just get him to bend over."

A cackle yelps, hysterical laughter rolling onto him.

"You still need the name!" she realises, mouthing 'You Lose' on repeat as her fingers form an L on his head.

"I can't be expected to remember names. I didn't know their names in the '90s, Jesus. I got the best places, I should win for that."

Christian leans forward, scratching his scalp as the alcohol hits the back of his throat.

"No you get a shot when you lose!" Roxy screeches, grabbing the bottle away.

"How the fuck does that work? Who invented that?"

"You did."

"That's shit."

A morose look creeps out onto his face and Roxy pokes him gently, throwing her arms around to give a cuddle.

"You did get the best places though," she mollifies quietly. "I liked three in a single tent on the beach, just 'cos it's snug."

"I got cramp."

"Is that what you call it oi oi oi?"

He shakes his head with some sort of a smile, going to re-fill the shots.

"Jeeesus I'm so drunk already. Christian you're useless, what an influence."

He looks at her, mouth falling;

"I thought you loved me."

"I do. I love you this much."

Her hands stretch out past her breasts;

"_This much_."

"Then shut up and drink with me."

"We won't get in the clubs if we're not careful," she says, shaking her head.

"I don't care, fuck 'um. We'll drink here, then go out. We'll get in somewhere."

"R and R, see what that fucking Janine slapper has done to my club."

"Nah somewhere in town, it's too quiet round here. I need to get out."

"Nooo we should go down R and R. I want to see how crap it is and laugh. That's what I'll do, I'll say 'That's crap'. She won't like that."

"It's too small, I need more," Christian mumbles, shaking himself. "Noise or sum'ink, I need to get out."

"All week you've done that, we can stay local tonight."

He clambers off the sofa, legs stumbling briefly before he puts an arm out to catch himself.

"Shit."

"You've had enough babe, let's stay in. We can stay here once."

"You stay, I'm goin'. I can't think round 'ere," he rambles, unable to hear the voice that says here needs to be avoided because it is the place where all the bad thoughts live.

"No don't –"

"I need noise, I need dancing. I need it all 'cos I'm great. I am. Jane thinks I'm shit, even my own sister does. That fucking evil hobbit has always thought it, looking at me like a poisoned dwarf with her dwarf language. I'm not a dwarf, I'm a gay giant, I don't know what she's saying."

"Course you don't."

"Even my own sister thinks it now. Lovely Lesley, she thinks it. Probably in with the dwarf, making some pact to screw me over, keep him away."

"No, she wouldn't. That's crazy."

She looks up;

"Who's a dwarf?"

Christian doesn't hear it, blinking hard. He drags his hands up his face, shaking roughly at his cheeks;

"I've gotta get out of here, come on."

Her feet trip, stumbling half out a heel as he yanks her up with force.

"Wait wait wait," she cries, hobbling to the door. "Have I got underwear on?"

"I'll check in the cab."

"It'll be too late then. I'll be pantsless."

"I don't care, come on," he says, pulling her out. "Grab the vodka, we'll finish it on the way."

* * *

><p>"Do you want anything else? Water maybe?"<p>

"I'm good, thank you," Syed mumbles, stretching slightly on the sofa cushion. "I'm officially full. Incredibly full. It was delicious."

He adds;

"And not because I would've eaten something that was close to a cat."

Munir's lips curl into a smile;

"What every chef wants to hear."

"It's getting late though," Syed says, to what is to his surprise, reluctantly. "I should leave you in peace."

"Don't be daft."

"Still…we're both up before four."

"True," Munir nods, putting his arm on the sofa to drag his weary body up. "I always forget somehow…until the alarm goes."

He takes the lead out the room, Syed following out to the hallway until they're at what he suspects to be a welcome mat.

"Yes," Munir says flatly as Syed kneels to put on a shoe, "If you're wondering, that is a welcome mat."

Syed laughs;

"I like it. It's very…" he muses, pulling on the other, "…domesticated."

Munir smiles;

"Flattery."

Syed gets back to his feet, finding himself checking for a coat he hadn't brought.

"Well...thank you for a lovely dinner."

"My pleasure."

"I had a nice time...which is saying a lot for me right now."

"Well I'm glad."

There is a flush of scent as Syed is leant towards, a warm hand resting on his arm and the feel of lips brushing the side of his cheek.

"You come back anytime."


	8. Chapter Seven

The lights hide nothing. Blood shot eyes focused on the reflection stalking back at him, Christian stares blankly. He had felt alive under lights before, like sex itself and freedom and the soul of youth...until he had felt nothing under them, at best an empty nothingness and at worse an active aging. There had been nights, towards the end, where he had felt a mix of everything, a restless sadness and a mix of glory, which was of course nothing, which was the state of him that needed saving. Then there had been him, beautiful, complicated, perfect him, and when he had had him, truly had him, then the lights stopped. The bleeding glare of the crowd and their empty nothing gaze had stopped because he hadn't needed it, their eyes watching. He had had him, and when he had his, no other eyes meant a thing, that they had wanted him or had looked and judged him as 'gone'. None of it meant anything and the only lights that registered were the ones that bathed him, the shadow that crept over his rested sleeping face or the dusk that glowed on him as he moved.

It was all different now.

Christian squints, the bathroom bulb florescent to him. The old lights were back. He had sought them out after all. This time they had not come alone though, they had not vanished at 3am as the darkness fell, or at least they had waited, lurked, and returned in another form for him to wake to. These lights hid nothing; they didn't even pretend to try.

He leans forward slowly, stroking his hand down the stubble of his face. He looks old. He shakes at the sight of it all, and he feels old.

There had been mornings where he had moaned at the idea of it, that the aging process had the audacity to come to find him. The bathroom mirror his willing accomplice, hours had been spent inspecting wrinkles and the beginning threats of grey hairs and lines. This was nothing like it. This, and the feeling of _age_ that comes in these moments, is nothing like inspections of the natural progress of time. Those lines and changes that lead to groans and a flash of crisis, but that are fleeting in their natural meaningless way. This is an aging, the sort that aches in scars and grazes deeper than your skin, and the pit of your gut reminds you that no arms are coming to wrap you with the comforting promise that you're still perfect to the one that counts.

He stares at himself and as he traces the sunken eyes and grey, deep lines, he could not feel further from that state. With a shaken breath, his sight falls to the circle of the night's sex reddening on the side of his neck. It is cheap, dark and for the first time in a long time his skin feels like dirt. His head falls, unable to look at it, a mark that means he cannot forget.

Somewhere in him, nearer his heart than he can safely let it, he feels the flood of another time, of such distinction it as if it shouldn't be thought of here. He closes his eyes tentatively and it is late summer. He has everything he had ever wanted, revelling in the subconscious euphoria of having no need to hide.

"_Christian! Have you seen this? Did you know you were doing this? Look! I look like I've been…" _

"_Ravished?" he had asked, smiling knowingly to the screech that had fallen from the bathroom mirror. _

"_Abused," had been announced to the bed, naked, frowning, glorious. "Or at best sucked, by a vampire that hasn't eaten for days." _

"_I'd suck you for eternity." _

"_This isn't funny," he had been told, almost believably. "I've got to meet Tam tomorrow, will these go by then? Do they get worse before they get better? Oh my G…how low do they go?" _

"_Are you planning on flashing him?" _

"_Stop it, this isn't funny!" _

"_This is where I make a joke about how I didn't hear you moaning at the time…" _

"_I just wasn't expecting physical markings…" _

"_There should be," he had murmured, dragging him to whisper low. "You, Syed Masood, are mine. Everyone should know it." _

"Hey, sorry, er is it alright if use your kitchen? Mouth tastes rank...seriously need a coffee."

Christian's head jumps, a stranger's voice jolting through the door and into his taken mind.

"Are you in there?" it comes again, with a lethal knock.

"Yeah," Christian murmurs. "Yeah," he says, louder. "Sorry. Use it. Do what you want."

The voice is quietened, mumbling polite thanks that leave him in silence, nothing here but himself and the quiet that is somehow wanted and cruelty. He lifts his head, turning it slowly back to stare at the glass. There is an ache, growing daily at the permanent absence of him, that has no grasp of the man that looks back.

* * *

><p>"Shit it's freezing. Why is it freezing in the summer?"<p>

A blonde, skinny and young, though old enough to know, rubs his hands as the morning air hits his skin. The door shuts behind him, a mild slam but no louder noise needed; the hurry and excuse of 'Need to get to work, can you get dressed?' from the owner enough to make it clear it's desired he is gone.

Christian hears something as he rattles shakily the keys in the lock, a voice saying something he doesn't care about from a man he doesn't know. _This is so much fun, isn't it_ the back of his mind asks, and he considers as he turns to look at the tired face of another stranger if he is now actively seeking out his own taunts.

"It's early I guess," the face adds, with a friendly expression that seems to attempt to give this a pleasant edge.

"Yeah," Christian says, forcing some sort of smile. "Sorry I er had to shove you out."

"Oh it's alright," he tells him, moving to walk out the open gate. "It's 9, technically not early…if you're not hung-over. Last night was…pretty crazy."

"Yeah," Christian mumbles, unable, at the dirt of the sentiment, to say anything more.

"Maybe see you at Cave on Friday?"

His head lifts up, an obligatory 'Maybe' preparing to leave him in non-committance. The words stick to his tongue as sluggishly he registers those watching him, two sets of dark eyes familiar to the cold ache at the pit of his gut.

Tamwar coughs, a squint and the exchange of silent questions glanced at his wife. She is little help, her mouth further open that it should be and the widening of her eyes that suggests he would get minimal wisdom at this moment if he turned to her for help. He is unsure how he should feel at this point, staring awkwardly at a man he had grown an affection for emerging from his flat with a man Tamwar did not know. He has the noticeable sensation that he should not be judging, that his brother would be offended if a year on it was being assumed gay men were something different, that sex was a guarantee. He imagines, as he looks at a stranger standing inches from a man that had been loved enough to have the world sacrificed for him, that if looking, offense would not be feeling that would wrap Syed's heart.

"Mornin'."

Christian manages it quietly and he wonders the point of it, whether they are each going to stand there and pretend that this is okay. He has never pretended in his life, if he could help it, but as they stand there looking at him like that, he finds himself wishing pretence is what they'll find. He can't decipher what it is that's sitting there, clouding behind their eyes. Sadness, he thinks, or perhaps from the girl that had on the eve of her wedding been the first of anyone to say they were "family", something that could be termed disappointment. That only made it worse, he thinks, that there were actually people that believed he was better than this, and he had with almost an effort, proved them wrong.

"Hi," she says, with a voice that is friendly, adding "Good night?" in a move Christian cannot decide is a branch or a punch.

"We have to get work," Tamwar states quickly, mute turning to assertion with a sudden force.

And there it is, Christian knows, as they turn and walk away from him, what it is that is lurking behind who was, in the heart of the one that mattered, his brother-in-law's eyes.

Betrayal.

Betrayal for himself and the chance he had given him, and above anything, for the one that they had both promised they had loved.

Christian attempts to tell himself that only children think this is cheating, that almost two months have passed since he left. It is a line that he barely tries to convince his mind of, almost needing to take the shame. He suddenly feels disgusting, a hand unknowingly tracing the mark staining his neck. He cannot comprehend how he has got here and he has no grasp of how to get back.

* * *

><p>"We're back where we were Tam, your argument style is flawed to say the least."<p>

"Which granted," Afia adds, slumping down onto the sofa, "…is one reason why I married you. Makes things _easy._"

"Well it's somewhat difficult isn't it, as we've been covering the same points all morning."

Tamwar shakes his head, staring forlornly to the wall.

"If it was me, I'd want to know."

He scrunches his face;

"Well it wouldn't be you because I would never do that to you."

"It's hypothetical Tam," she says slowly. "In a hypothetical situation, we present a reality that is different to this one in order to enable us to get a better understanding of something occurring at present. In reality, we would never break up and if we did, you wouldn't go off with skeezy women."

"Well no…"

Afia turns her head, looking for clarity;

"Why wouldn't you?"

"What? Because you said –"

"No Tam, not because I said. You wouldn't go off with skeezy women because no one could replace my wonder and you would know I would kill you."

"Yes. That's what I meant."

"But in a hypothetical situation where you did, I would want to know."

He sighs, rubbing a finger and thumb between his glasses' line.

"I don't know if Syed would though... Besides, I don't even know what to tell him."

"We'll sort something out," she promises, leaning up to pull down his wandering form. "I'll do it with you if you like."

"No I mean, I don't even know what to tell him because I don't know what happened. We don't actually know what happened do we? We're just assuming, and assuming makes an ass –"

"It's a pretty well founded assumption Tam. They walked out of the flat together first thing. I don't think he visited for breakfast."

"He might have. Or they got really drunk, passed out, and didn't do anything. Excessive alcohol is a key cause of erectile dysfunction so…you know, that's something to consider."

"He did look pretty rough…"

"See."

Afia takes his fiddling hand and puts hers on his cheek;

"I know what you're doing, I know you're trying to avoid it. I just don't think it can be done. He's right next door and if this is what Christian is doing, which considering the evidence, is pretty likely, then Syed will find out. And it's better coming from you than _Big Mo_ or that new girl in the salon with special needs. It's better from you."

"He's just getting back on his feet though... This might push him back again."

Tamwar leans down into the comfort of her skin;

"Christian was smiling," he says quietly. "He smiled at him."

"You're his brother Tam. You know what's right."

"I know."

He murmurs;

"I don't want to hurt him."

"Who don't you want to hurt?"

They turn, breeze floating from the pull of the front door, to a confused and expectant Syed.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you hugely to all the lovely people leaving reviews. They do encourage me to continue, rather than say, do work or see people. Your thoughts are great.<strong>

**NB: To VF - as the anti-reward, Syed is wearing the clown shirt (everyone else can imagine him in the tight green tee). **


	9. Chapter Eight

"Who don't you want to hurt?"

Mouth hanging open, Tamwar stares at Syed; his casual expression turning into some sort of bemusement as what must be the slowest of seconds drags past.

"Darren."

It's blurted out with almost confidence and Tamwar wonders momentarily if it was him who had said it. In watching Syed's face turn in focus, he imagines in fact the word came from Afia.

"Darren," Syed repeats, slowly.

"Yeah Darren. Tam's worried about being best man, aren't you Tam?"

Afia's eyes widen, giving some sort of signal that Tamwar hopes to understand.

"Er yes…"

"Why? You'll be great. Best man a man could have," Syed smiles, pausing visibly as he traces back. "Wait – why would that hurt him?"

"What?"

"You said that would hurt him, that you didn't want to hurt someone."

"Oh I…"

"Because Jodie wants the groomsmen in pink. Tam isn't keen."

Syed grins with realisation, giving a slap on the back;

"You're going to look fetching Tambo."

"That's what I said. Fuchsia could be his colour," Afia muses. "Would match his cheeks."

"And make him very secure in his sexuality," Syed laughs. "Besides, you can't disappoint Jodie. She's upset, the whole salon's upset."

He turns, adding with seriousness;

"Please don't hurt your own brother."

Tamwar's brow crumples with a nod, his mouth twitching in a way that makes Syed's pause; "Are you o– "

Afia kisses Tam quickly, stopping anything in its tracks.

"I'll go back to the restaurant," she announces, confusingly. "You stay and have lunch with Syed," adding nothing to Tam's knowledge of what he is supposed to do.

"We can't eat," he calls after her, somewhat lamely.

"It's a turn of phrase!" is yelled back, the door slamming behind her.

Syed stares at Tamwar, unsure if he's walked into a domestic. He comforts himself with the thought Afia isn't the sort who could do subtle rowing, more likely slamming of plates no matter who was there. He wants Tamwar to be happy and not simply because someone should be.

"She's still enjoying the fast then?" he says with hope the problem is the mundane, nothing more than angered hunger pains.

"What? Oh yeah. She ate a Twix earlier...thinks I don't notice. The fact she tastes like chocolate's a give-away."

"Tambo, too much information."

"No, not like that obviously, just –"

"I'm teasing. You're married. You're not doing anything wrong. Well I assume you're not, unless she's manhandling you in the middle of the afternoon… Which yeah, actually I don't want to know about so…"

"She's not. I'm not. We're not. She just snacks…food…sometimes. Don't tell mum."

"Course I won't. What am I, the Ramadan police?" he says, sinking into the sofa.

"Besides...I've not really spoken to her that much recently… Is she here?"

"Mum? No, I don't know where she is. Must have taken Kamil out."

"Oh."

"Did you want to see her?"

"No," he says quietly. "No it's fine."

"You could come back later? Tonight for Iftar, maybe?"

"Oh I can't tonight. Thank you, I'm just…I'm doing this jumble thing, for Somalia. I've said I'll do it now and I should…this has been the most self-absorbed Ramadan to date, considering… But two days left, better late than never right? It's generally a bit weird, doing that stuff when you've purposely avoided getting to know anyone, but Munir said he fancied going…"

"Munir?"

"Yeah, you met him in the café…"

"He fancied going?"

"Well yeah."

"He doesn't have jumble at his own mosque? Actually I know he does because his mosque is my mosque and we have jumble. Everyone's obsessed with jumble."

"Well yeah, he does I guess, but he said he fancied a change…"

"He fancied a change?"

"Tam will you stop repeating everything I say! Have you got some short term memory problems suddenly?"

"No. Well if I did I'd probably have forgotten but…"

"Tam."

"Seems a bit odd that's all. He just fancies an excessively long journey for jumble does he, that's what he fancies…"

"Are you a fourteen year old girl?"

"Is he gay?"

"Tam! What has that got to do with anything?"

"Well it's not, it's just got to do with whether he likes boys or not, or men, technically men. Maybe men and women, some people like that, I read anyway, I don't know…"

"Well, I…yes. Yes he's gay."

"Statistically it is likely. One in ten people are homosexual and with the number of Muslims in London, it would be likely that there would be more than one in a large mosque."

"Well good, as long as we fit with maths."

"That's nice then."

"I guess."

"So this is like a date?"

"What? No! This is…jumble. It's nothing."

"Probably not the best idea anyway. Mosque, not exactly appropriate dating ground. Separating the sexes isn't much use when you like your own…"

Syed's mouth hangs slightly;

"Are you saying I'm going to…check out his…whilst he prays?"

"No, no. _No._ I'm your brother, why would I ever say that?"

"I have no idea."

He pauses, staring at Tamwar carefully.

"Are you okay? You're being odd. Even for you. No offence."

"I'm fine."

"If you're really uncomfortable with wearing pink, I'm sure Darren won't mind. He'll probably be grateful to use you as an excuse to tell Jodie no."

"Yeah…"

Tamwar's eyes slide to the wall and he realises from his height he isn't sitting down. He thinks this is probably strange and sits himself on a chair by Syed's side.

"So, this Munir...Is he like your new friend?"

"I don't know…maybe," Syed answers honestly, finding himself running his hand along the line of the sofa arm.

"He's nice…keeps my head from…" His fingers stop at his own words and he shakes his head slightly, "I've only known him five minutes, seen him at work, had dinner at his last night…"

"You had dinner at his?"

Syed's eyes glance up;

"Yeah. It was…it was just dinner."

"You don't like him then? You know, more than a friend like him..."

"He's just…someone who's nice. I can't even think about anything else. I can't even imagine that."

The words hang a moment in silence, and he asks it quietly;

"Have you seen him?"

"Who?" Tamwar asks, "Manir? Not since the café the other…"

"No," Syed says, as if it should be obvious there is no other answer. "Christian. Have you seen him?"

Tam sits blankly, Syed continuing;

"I haven't really and I thought… Do you see him ever?"

"Er sometimes…"

"I mean with you being next door, you can probably tell what he's… Is he getting out in the morning? Going to work okay?"

"Sorry," Syed murmurs, noticing what he sees to be awkward strain on Tamwar's face. "You don't need that, I was just… I just wondered that's all."

"Have you still not spoken to him?"

He shakes his head silently;

"I think sometimes I should go round there...try and talk. But it seems weird, to just walk over and knock on the door. Then it feels weird that it feels weird, you know? I don't know, maybe I should just do it."

"No," Tamwar blurts, forcing Syed's head up;

"What?"

"I mean, maybe leave it. Or call before you go, you know, in case he's doing something…"

He asks as if in defence of something;

"What would he be doing?"

"Nothing, just…"

"Tam…why would I have to call first? What do you know?"

"Nothing."

"Tam –"

"Someone might be there."

"What?"

"Someone might be there." He pauses, saying to the floor, "I don't want you to just walk in –"

Syed swallows along a shake and murmurs slowly;

"What would I walk in on?"

He says louder;

"Tam."

"Him. With someone else. He might not, I don't know, I…I think he's…I think men are staying over."

Syed hears the words and wonders if he physically shook, the punch of ice that came with each syllable squeezing his stomach as they hit. He feels sick suddenly, from the stupidity and the truth and there is only a small part of him that is still in this conversation, hearing what is being said.

"I'm sorry," Tamwar mumbles urgently, murmuring doubts of whether anything should have been said.

"It's okay," Syed finds himself saying quietly, unknowingly holding a palm to the black cloth against his lower chest.

"I knew."

It comes as some sort of a whisper and the expression that sits on Tamwar's face suggests it was not heard.

"I didn't _know_ know," Syed murmurs as painful clarity, "I just knew."

Tamwar doesn't have a grasp of what to say at this point, watching his elder brother stare away. He wonders if his gaze is focused out the window, his eyes tracking cruel proof of the words that have been said. The truth of it is that Syed can't bear to look at him, to have to explain how you can be unsurprised at the depths that can be fallen to by the one that you said is worthy of your love. He can't begin to explain how every part of you knew it was coming, from the minute you were gone probably happening, but that your heart is screaming from the shock of it and you cannot believe it has been done.

"I'm going to go the bathroom," Syed hears himself say, getting up quickly without a fuss.

"Syed are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he breaks, without thinking of looking back. "I need the loo…I'll be…I'll be fine."

There's a crash of the door and Syed stumbles on it, jamming the bathroom lock with shaken hands. He breathes quickly, relief at the temporary escape of it, an exhale to try and calm. He breathes, the sort of breath that falls in and out through a pointed mouth, that runs through your chest as it heaves. The sort of breath your lungs cling to but leaves them wanting, your fingers scrunching through hair and scalp to gain some sort of ground.

He knows this is pathetic, his heart physically aching when the one it gave itself to is functioning alive and well. _Not all that's functioning _his mind tells him, almost cruelly, as if it's a spite he could ever resist. There is a voice of sense somewhere within him soothing with thoughts of past lapses, meaningless bodies that were nothing but fleeting mistakes. Bodies used to substitute his no less, men latched on to ease the pain of the loss his absence left. It isn't whispered for flattery, to stroke his ego with reassurance that he was of such value that in losing him these are the depths that must be sunk. It is for some sort of history, that this is his way of coping and it has all been done before, that in the strangest sense taking other men to their bed has from the beginning been a reflection of how much he was loved. It doesn't make things better, and as his mind imagines satisfied smiles and blissful moans, practical rationalities are not here to stay.

He drags his palm across his eyes quickly, the dampness marking his skin. It's the same as it ever was, a bed that in technicality he had no claim to but that had, when marked with the bodies of others, felt with possession like it was his. It was because of who lay in it, because wherever that warmth and flesh and thudded heart beat was, Syed knew he should be too. He was his, even when he wasn't, even when intangible terms like _ex_ and the physical separating of things declared they were over.

This should probably all be meaningless, compared to the substantive loss of not being together. It should be ignored as superficial, as an added passing pain fleeting through the ache of him leaving. It wasn't fleeting pain though, Syed knew, even in the first minutes of it. It ran deeper, past possession and insecure doubts to longing, to a physical ache that the body that was in every way his, had given itself to another. _And another_, the back of his mind chimed, and at this point, another. The one that said he was forever, in being touched even in the cheapest of ways, was that little less his.

He wonders suddenly if they go for breakfast, or he makes the mushrooms with the runny egg. It is not a possibility there is singing in the kitchen, the thought of that is beyond that which can be considered.

Syed shakes himself, running the tap quickly and splashing cold sense onto his face. The water sits as drips on his palms and he pauses a moment, before a towel is grabbed and the wet and stain is dried. Tamwar will be waiting downstairs, undoubtedly worried and thinking this is his fault. Syed is sick of worrying him and wishes beyond anything things had not turned out in a way that meant he was doing that again.

He unlocks the door quickly, walking out before he has time to think. The thoughts in there aren't ones he wishes to stay near yet unrivalled effort is needed to do anything more than stay and cling to the toilet bowl.

He lifts his eyes from the carpet on the sound of other feet and as if she knows she is needed, sees her standing there.

"Mum."

"Syed," she pauses, "I...I didn't know you were here."

"No I came to see Tam. He said you were out."

"I was. Kamil needed some fresh air. It gets so stuffy, you know and he gets restless."

His lip smiles gently;

"I remember."

"You look pale," she says softly, and he almost laughs.

"Thanks...I've had a bug."

"A bug?"

"A virus I think, nothing really. It'll go soon."

"I hope you have your appetite…"

"I'm observing Ma, you know I always do…"

"No I mean for dinner," she corrects. "For Eid. You'll come?"

He rubs a hand along his sleeve and nods quietly;

"I'd like that."

"Good. It isn't right for loved ones to be apart."

"No..."

"I'm going to make everything, all your and Tamwar's favourites. Afia's helped to make a list, we'll shop tomorrow. The girl doesn't know ingredients in the slightest, I'll have to check it all but it'll be…"

"It'll be wonderful. It always is."

She smiles, gratefully.

"Do you remember when you were little and you and Shabnam tried to be my little helpers?"

"More like complete hindrances," he rues. "I thought I was so useful, like you, but in reality I was just throwing random things into pots. I'm amazed I didn't make people ill."

"Because I made you my senior assistant…"

"Which mainly consisted of me standing there very quietly reading labels."

"You were always such a good reader, even when you were little."

"Only 'cos I had a good mum to teach me."

There is the softest of smiles at that and they stand, in the quiet.

Slowly, she takes the steps forward to be close to him, lifting her hand to rest on his flushed cheek.

It is whispered;

"I know how much you cared Syed."

There is nothing more that needs to be said, there is nothing that can be. His mouth opens slightly, his teeth grazing the bottom of his lip with a shake. He falls his head forward and she is holding him, her arms reaching to rub along the trace of his back. The cotton of her dress noticeably dampens, and as they stand on the landing, it isn't mentioned.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you to everyone* who's left a review so far - and for 'putting up' with the misery. If it helps, I can't wait for them to be in the same room either. Very soon... <strong>

***GiantSeagull - I've not been able to say thanks for your reviews (as you're not logged in) so thank you! **


	10. Chapter Nine

**I thought I'd take a break during clippy cloppy times but VF, Clarkey, Poppy and Giant Seagull pressed for this to continue. They were right. The fixing must continue! I hope so anyway - do let me know what you think. Thank you to all reviewers! **

* * *

><p>"Did you put something in this tea?"<p>

"What?"

Christian glances up, dedicating small attention to what is being asked.

"The tea, it tastes foul. Are you slipping whiskey in caffeine now?"

He isn't. He is no longer actively searching for stupidity or racing for nothing in the hope he could only fall. There was no realisation, a toll that struck with simple sense. The attempts just stopped one day, at a certain minute he had had enough. He tired of it, somewhere between eating cereal with a glass of wine at lunch time and forgetting the name of the strangers passed out in his bed.

"This isn't whiskey though it's…"

He grips the cushion he has been holding for what may have been a day and says distractedly;

"I think the milk's off."

"You think the…?" she screeches, spluttering the contents back into the mug. "Jesus, are you tryin' to kill me?"

"What?"

"The milk Christian. Bad dairy product. Death."

"Oh…it's fine," he murmurs. "I haven't been shopping. Sorry."

Roxy rubs her mouth from the drip and watches as his eyes turn back, staring blankly out the empty window glass. She decides he has been distracted for three days now and wailing drunk about her lack of underwear was the last time she saw him smile.

"What's wrong Christian?"

"Nothing."

"Yeah it looks like nothing," she says, budging his arm with her hip to squash down next to him.

"You've been sitting here like a stuffed corpse since I came in. I called you yesterday, five times. Why didn't you pick you?"

"I didn't feel like seeing anyone."

"I'm not anyone though am I? I'm your one, Roxy Mitchell."

The words get a customary smile but there is nothing to it and she is not without enough sight to catch the added shadows that have arrived in the night.

Her voice is quiet;

"You thinking about him?"

"No."

"Liar."

He exhales quickly, the edge of a laugh as he catches her eye. He looks at her, waiting for something, and his glance turns to the floor;

"It was Eid yesterday."

"Eid?"

"You know, the end of Ramadan."

"Right."

"And that reminded you of Syed?"

"What? No, well yes, but… I mean…"

Christian shakes his head slowly, almost at himself.

He says as if a secret;

"I mean it was Eid yesterday…and I hope he was okay. I don't even know what he did for it, if Zainab let him home."

"Yeah well, now you two have broken up he's probably the darling boy again, taken his place as his mummy's favourite. He probably spent the whole day with them."

It comes out loud;

"I don't know though do I? I haven't got a clue, how he is, what he's doing. I can tell myself that they've let him back home, just like I can tell myself that I don't want that just to make myself feel better, but it doesn't mean it's true. I have absolutely no fucking idea about anything because I haven't been anywhere fucking near him."

He drags his hand over his face, murmuring on a shake;

"I can't get this picture out my head of him in the flat by himself."

"So he had a quiet one, that's alright…"

"A quiet one is what we had last year. Me and him…making him breakfast in bed and cooking…"

The words catch in his throat.

"Being by yourself is being by yourself. It's like spending Christmas without anyone…he deserves so much better than that."

"Except that isn't your responsibility Christian…"

"That isn't quite true though is it? He lost them when he came out, he lost them when he chose me. When I was with him, he had me. He missed them…I know he missed them so much but he had me, it was us…he had that. Now we're done…apparently…and it's not like he can go back. He's just got the crumbs being with me left him with. I don't know how he is, I don't know. I don't know anything."

His head turns, eyes finding the nothing space out the window;

"He told me once, about the Eids without his family. He didn't really talk that much about the bad bits of Leeds, just the good stuff, the work stories you know. We were in bed once and he told me. Only once but he told me. I promised him he'd never have an Eid alone again. What a liar."

"You hardly knew what was going to happen did you? You're not psychic."

"No…that's one thing I'm not. I wouldn't have predicted this if you'd paid me. I'd have said I wouldn't have let anything screw this up. I was going to be a great boyfriend, show him just how right this was…"

"You were the best boyfriend."

"Yeah, which is why I'm sitting here alone with stale milk."

"You're not alone. You've got me. And you're building things back up, a brand new flat, a new home for a new life."

"I'm sitting here with blue walls Roxy. Dark fucking blue walls. I'm not building anything."

He looks back at her, eyes pressing;

"Do you think he's told him? Tamwar?"

"What about the guy? I don't know, maybe. It's not like you're in a relationship with him is it?"

"Which one?"

"The random. It's not like you're dating someone else yet, I mean that'd be news to pass on it. It's just sex, it doesn't change anything."

"'Cos I'm the sort who can be in love with someone and then screw someone else. What a man."

"It's more complicated than that."

"Yeah…that's what I tell myself too."

She pauses, nudging him;

"Someone you love huh?"

"What? You thought that was it? All gone?"

He shakes his head to the floor;

"A couple of months is nothing. I'll be eighty two, with a dodgy liver, eating mush, and still be completely and utterly in love with him. That's the thing with finding the love of your life. You can do and say what you like. They're still in you."

* * *

><p>"I feel like I should clean your kitchen or something after that, like I did serious damage."<p>

"You cooked in it, that isn't anything to apologise for."

Syed smiles gently, a relieved laugh falling from Munir.

"It sort of got out of hand quickly", he muses, placing himself on the sofa cushion next to him. "If it still looks like a bomb's hit it in the morning, let me know okay."

"Hey I don't think you're obliged to come back to clean, not if you came over in the first place to cook it."

"I was kind of surprised when you called. I mean pleased…just surprised."

He had wanted someone. His eyes had stared at the walls with cruel thoughts in the silence and he had needed someone there. He thought of Tam by default but it hadn't lead to knocking on the family door. He couldn't bear to be pitied, to have it hanging on Tam's tongue as if it all was real, though in failing to dial for Tanya was aware that it was not just the comforter knowing what had happened that meant he had gone elsewhere. He had told Munir nothing; he didn't want to speak of it, he didn't want him to know. He had just wanted someone to be next to, and if he could admit it, a man that wanted to be there.

"I just…felt like some company I guess."

"Well then I'm really glad you called."

Syed's eyes dip;

"Thank you for the text on Eid by the way."

"I was trying to figure out a way to type Eid Mubarak in text speak but I failed miserably."

"Is this just something you do?"

"Yeah I like to text ironically. Albeit encouraged by sitting through a two hour dinner with one of my brothers telling me that my iQuran app was blasphemy. He ignores the fact I have male lovers and concentrates on the important stuff like technology. Seems to make him feel better so I let him. I was this close to texting him 'God is gr-8' last night but I refrained."

"Are you secretly evil?"

Munir gives a little smile;

"Not even close."

"It was nice to see them though? Your family?"

"Course. You ignore the pink elephant in the room and they're just your family. I'm really glad that you could spend Eid with yours. Did you get any good presents? That top looks new."

"It is, but not from anyone. Mainly because I've just about passed the phase where my mum dresses me and Tam would never even think of a clothes department. I just bought it for Eid."

"Well…it looks good."

Syed's eyes dart;

"Thank you. For coming over…I mean thanks for coming over."

"I wanted to."

Munir moves slightly, the distance on the sofa shrunk;

"I like you Syed. I know I'm not really allowed to and this isn't me putting pressure or expecting that anything's changed, I just…I guess I wanted to say it."

"I…"

"I think you're gorgeous and it's none of my business and I shouldn't say it but your ex is a complete idiot for letting you go. You're just lovely and I can't imagine how he could want anyone else –"

Syed's mouth rushes to his and takes it, drowned by a touch that wants him and the hum of longed for words through his lips. He ignores that it is not the right tongue that has uttered them and strokes at the base to encourage the substitute in. It is sweet and drapes and twists with a nip, pleasured by the access granted, the way this mouth wants and cries to be kissed. The nips are the edge of a gasp later than is used to though and they don't caress as they should. He feels his heart beat quicken; the thud that comes with touch and trapped breath. It does not flutter; there is no heated burst that spreads tingle down the tip of his spine. He widens his mouth as if he is searching, silently asking for something, clinging to the attention of lips and a hand moving to the back of his neck. It strokes through hair with heated weight and all he can think is how these fingers feel different, that no thumb is falling to play beneath his ear.

"Stop," he murmurs it and the hand loosens, quick breath falling as bruised lips pull away.

"I'm sorry," he says and he pulls his arms around himself. "I shouldn't have. I shouldn't… I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

A hand goes to touch his arm as if in sympathy but it is wrong. He just wants that of someone else.


	11. Chapter Ten

**I know, a massive delay. Sorry! I can only say that with what's happening in canon, it's a small miracle I got this out. I'm going to try and carry this on and do so as the story originally intended, dealing with the themes that have been onscreen in the past and the (believable) ones that are there now. A healthy re-build is as ever the aim and we're very almost there! **

**More than ever, thank you for the reviews x **

* * *

><p>"I'm going now."<p>

Christian flattens his hair with the tip of his hand, bending to meet the mirror height. It definitely looks different upon the fifth inspection and he begins the sixth.

Roxy stares, her mouth hanging open in confusion;

"What, why?"

"Because I want to see him."

He says the statement as if it were the most obvious a thing and perhaps it is.

"What, and you're just going to walk up to him?"

"As opposed to?"

"I don't know, calling him."

"Why would I call him? He's not some casual ex, some bloke I met in a club and fancy another go at."

Christian turns to face her;

"It's Sy."

"Yeah but isn't that the… You've barely said a word in what, two months? Maybe turning up at his work isn't the best idea."

He turns, pulling his black hoodie on each arm;

"I'm not turning up at his work."

"Oh good - "

"I'm going to his."

* * *

><p>"Thank you for coming."<p>

"It's fine. I didn't want to leave it like that either."

Syed nods gently, grateful for the kindness. He hasn't slept much and was relieved when Munir agreed to come. The night hadn't exactly ended badly; he had been left graciously with no bad words uttered. He had found himself barely resting since despite it, though he was more than aware there was a second face keeping him awake.

His hand finds itself gesturing towards the sofa;

"Do you want to sit down?"

"Thanks, but I won't. I can't stay long…just nipping out at lunch."

"Oh okay. Me too actually."

Syed lifts his lip, looking away quickly in the silence. There's quiet until Munir does the kind thing and breaks it.

"Listen, I'm guessing this is about last night and you really don't have to…we can just forget it –"

"No," Syed rushes, "I mean, yes I called because of last night but no, I don't want to just forget it. I do, I mean, I do want to…but I wanted to talk about it. I'm sick of ignoring the difficult stuff, I don't want to do that with you."

"Okay."

"Last night…I shouldn't have done that."

"It really wasn't any –"

"It was though. I didn't mean it to be, I didn't plan it. I just called you to talk and suddenly…"

He says it quietly;

"I was sad, I was just sad."

"I get it Syed, honestly."

"You've been so lovely though and the last thing I would want to do is use you or hurt you."

"And you didn't. It was just a kiss. You don't have to feel guilty, really. Not for anyone. Besides, I probably should have stopped it myself. I like to think I would have done if it had gone any further."

He tries for an awkward laugh;

"I like to think so anyway."

Syed smiles;

"So we're okay?"

"Of course. I'll try and get caught up on someone who's actually interested and we can…well, your work and Mosque seems nicely platonic. Unless you count me being half naked…for your work obviously, not… Okay I should go at this point," he laughs. "See me out?"

* * *

><p>He couldn't think about the details or he was sure he would run. Christian Clarke didn't run. He launched, he pounced. If there was something other people would have balked from, he ran towards it. He would practically strut. Except the times when he didn't, there were those times too. When you're barely an adult and your mum asks you home and you say <em>fuck you <em>because you know everything and there's a night and light that wants you and will kill to have you. When you're too much of an adult to get away with this shit but you're cute enough still and they only slightly care when you fleece them and get out when you're bored. When you're a little brother but supposed to be a man but she's crying and enough of your mind tells you there might be no coming back from this.

Christian Clarke ran; when he had to, when he wanted, when he told himself they had left him with no choice. He ran from him sometimes. Which was ironic considering he had also never run to anything more in his life. Ran with wilful naivety at times and a belief, contrary to every fact and most active signs, that he was his – which he had been really, so he could look back and tell himself he was right. It was a lie to say he'd never run the other way though, whether it was taking the weekend in Vauxhall to flirt with men he didn't remotely want or staying within metres but maintaining a silence he didn't bring himself to break. He'd never get far though and nothing good ever came from trying. The good things only came from him and he wanted them back.

Familiarity of market faces half registering, Christian found it in him to nod politely as he brushed past. He'd pass these stalls and be a couple of minutes away and he'd probably knock or something and ask if they could talk. He couldn't think about the details. He couldn't think about how the one who used to get the mumbled "your elbow's in my stomach" in the morning to the "love you" at night was now who he hadn't spoken to in two months. He could barely comprehend he was about to knock on a door he had to be invited into, the door to a flat where the one who he was meant to share his life with had been sleeping but he had never even seen before.

He knew where it was at least. He'd paid enough attention to conversations in public places that he had had absolutely no interest in to know where Syed was staying. He knew as his feet drew to a halt outside a flat they used to pass by without notice that this was where he should stop. Christian shuffles, thoughts suddenly incapable of being completely ignored. His mind is left with what he suspected was what other humans called doubt and the nerves started to strain. As he begins to consider the etiquette of knocking, the strain falls to relief as the door opens and Syed comes out.

'Sy' he hears himself breathe.

Christian realises, despite it being something close to impossibility, that he forgot just how beautiful Syed is. It is the same negligent part of him that for a moment forgot the degree to which he missed him, an obvious truth lost somewhere within every part of every day that has been worse simply from him not being there. He looks like beauty, warm skin cut against the crisp whiteness of the top he had bought him, a show of belonging and support of another time.

His fingers twitch, as if they are already asking to touch him, to find their way back to stroking the disobedient hair from his face. They twitch and his heart aches and as he begins to move as if it were possible to reach from here, as if he were permitted to if he could, he stops. His heart stops and he sees another at the door. Someone else.

Christian squints, trying from a distance to catch sight. There is part of him that thinks that Syed opened the door because he knew he was waiting. It is unsure why he brought another man with him by his side. He is tall and suited in a way that makes him even more handsome than he already is and Christian quickly traces a year of memories to put a name to the man that is standing inches from the one that is his. He's Asian and he appeases himself for a moment with the thought this increases the innocence and not the threat.

Syed dips his head to the ground and gives what Christian recognises as his gentlest smile, that one that is shyness but will tell the one watching what he wants. The stranger leans slightly and a hand is placed on Syed's back, a palm rubbing against a spot that has never been seen to be touched.

Christian's jaw flexes and he watches as another's lips graze Syed's cheek. His heart does a new form of beat where it tightens; something is squeezing on his chest.

He is unsure when his feet begin to move but they are striding, before he knows it has happened he is there and a hard voice is coming out;

"Well this looks cosy."

"Christian…" Syed stumbles. He has forgotten what it is to see him and his breath catches to have him here.

"Don't let me interrupt. I was coming to talk but clearly you're…"

Christian gives a withering stare to the suit in front of him, "…_busy_."

"What? I'm not, I…"

"Oh I think you are. Believe me Syed, I know what busy looks like."

"Listen, I'm sure if we just –" Munir attempts.

Christian turns at the sound of a stranger's voice, holding a finger up with pause;

"This has got nothing to do with you."

"If it's to do with Syed then yes it's got something to do with me."

"Oh has it?"

Christian squares slightly, asking low;

"And who exactly are _you_?"

"He's my friend," Syed says, holding a palm out as if to keep the space between the two. "And he shouldn't have to hear any of this."

He turns to Munir, suggesting quietly;

"Maybe you should get back to work?"

"You heard him," Christian nods. "Run on your little way."

"I'm not going anywhere until Syed asks me to."

It's said with a familiarity Christian doesn't like, as if he's assured of his place, as if that place is to care for Syed. His heart twists as a stranger's voice softens to ask;

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, really. You should go."

"If you're sure?"

"It's fine."

"Okay." Munir gives a glance to Christian and back. "I'll call you about Mosque okay?"

"Yeah."

He's watched by both as he walks away, reluctant and concerned but with the unavoidable feeling that even in these moments no one should be in between them.

Syed shakes his head, his voice quiet despite the only audience now lunch time passers-by.

"What are you doing Christian?"

"What am _I_ doing?"

"Yeah, you. Have you gone insane? Walking up here, starting random fights with people you don't even know."

"Oh but I think one of us knows him. I think one of us knows him really well."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means the issue really isn't what I'm doing but what you've been doing. Or more accurately, who."

"You think?"

"I think I'm not the only one to have gotten one of your _lunch time treats_."

Syed stares at him, like there's a stillness to it, like with that something has stopped and the air is falling away. Christian's breath catches as if it has, his chest wanting to take that back, to take the months back if in this moment someone would offer it with a clock's tick. He can only look at him, Syed's lip shaking in that way that would be barely noticeable if he were not his, and he stares wondering if right now he still is.

"I don't know what we're doing."

It's said with such quietness Christian could barely hear it if were not that each broken whisper rings in his heart.

"You barely speak to me for what, two months? Then this."

"I didn't mean –"

"You're hurting Christian. I get it. It kills me, I hate it…but guess what, so am I. I hurt every single day that I'm not with you and I hurt every minute I think about what we had and what we did to it."

Syed shakes his head slowly;

"You can't come here and do this. It's not right. I want to talk, I don't want…"

The words slip away, they are already known to both.

"I have to get back to work," he finds himself murmuring. "I have a client."

Christian just nods, all the things he wants to say wrapped on his tongue with all those he should. He stands in what is to him silence, the market and the others nothing as he watches the only one that matters walk away.


	12. Chapter Eleven

"I'm sorry for before."

He looks up;

"For not calling, for hanging up when you did."

Jane notes the rasp to his voice, the after effects of repetitive drinking or the current effects of pain, and decides quickly to be kind.

"That doesn't matter."

"And for just turning up."

"That doesn't matter either. I'm glad you did."

Christian lifts his lip slightly, a grateful smile. It leaves quickly and they sit for a minute in near supportive silence.

"You've painted?" he notes. "The walls were green."

"Bobby said it looked like vomit so I didn't have much choice."

Christian finds a quiet laugh;

"His dad's charm that one. It's good though…that you're getting things sorted, moving on."

"Well it's got to be done hasn't it? You move out, you decorate…move on. Something like that anyway…"

"I haven't."

"Moved on?"

"Decorated. I was going to…the walls are bloody hideous…just never got round to it."

He looks at her, pulling his cheek in to admit the lie with a flood;

"I didn't want to. All I've done is swap the sofa and that was only because the old one was too big and Roxy kept moaning her arse off when she tripped over it every time she came in. I couldn't decide if I was glad to see it go or not. One minute I needed it because I could practically feel Sy laying on it on me and the next I couldn't stand to be near it for the same reason. Alfie's cousins came to take it and I treated it like an antique come bomb. They must have thought I was fucking mental."

"So… things are the same then?"

He stays silent.

"Christian, are you okay?"

"No. No not really."

"What happened? Is it Syed?"

Christian laughs sadly, as if the question were needed.

"You know if you just talk to him... Have you even - "

"I did."

"Oh. Well – "

"I tried," he corrects. "We didn't quite get that far. I accused him of sleeping with someone else instead."

"You…"

"Yeah."

"Well did he?"

"Did he what?"

"Sleep with someone?"

"I don't know. Yes. No. Maybe. I don't know. No."

"What made you even think that?"

"I saw him with someone, they were…close."

"Who?"

"Some..._man_."

It's said as if the words have a taste.

"I'd never seen him before. I know everyone Syed knows. Well, not his random relatives or old friends from Mosque but they don't talk to him anyway and well…this guy, he certainly wasn't one of the shunners. He was quite the opposite."

"And you're sure you didn't recognise him?"

"No Jane, his face has been burned to the back of my retina for the past six hours and I forgot that actually I met him once."

He sighs, shaking his head;

"Sorry."

"I have no idea who he was. I just know he's a man…and he was there. Tall, all muscles in a suit that cost more than my flat deposit. Asian too."

Christian grimaces at the memory;

"They looked quite perfect."

"Being the same race hardly makes you a perfect match Christian..."

"Muslim too. He threw in this thing about Mosque, you should have heard him Jane, like some dating pool I'm not invited to. Not that I'd want to, it'd be dull as shit but…well, it fits. Zainab probably picked him out of a little book of Muslim gays she found."

"Now you know you've lost it because Zainab - as you're painfully aware - would never be looking for a man for Syed."

"Maybe not. But I'd be even more delusional than I clearly already am if I thought the only reason she hated me being near him was because I don't have a vagina. This is probably her version of a victory...she's probably finding him dates."

"And you think he'd go on them? Two months after you broke up?"

"But what he was doing? And why did I have to run my fucking mouth off?"

"Tell me what actually happened."

He breathes out, wiping a hand over his face.

"I went to see him. I went to see him because I wanted to talk. And I saw him...but then I saw he wasn't alone. There was this guy next to him, they'd come out of Syed's flat, that flat that my fiancé lives in without me and that I haven't even seen inside, and they stood there, talking about something that I don't know about. And he kisses him, on the cheek, like people do, but Syed never does. I've never seen Syed let any man but me kiss him, in any way, but he did, he let this one...and put his hand on him, touched him just on that bit on his upper back. He had his hand on him."

"And you said something?"

"I wish. I'd define it more as a fit, some sort of public slanging match that I hadn't quite realised I'd done until I was standing alone, just Syed's face and a few chosen words left to tell me I wasn't actually having a particularly shit dream."

"He yelled back?"

"He didn't need to. He looked...disappointed. But like it wasn't that much of a surprise at all which let's face it, is probably worse."

"He'll know you were upset. We all say things we don't mean..."

"I seem to do that a lot though, don't I?"

It takes more than it should to ask the question. Even if the events themselves, small or with the weight of significance, cannot be found by memory he remembers the moments when he managed to reflect on them. Those moments, few and fleeting, that can only come in the darkness, the darkness that you wake through as sleep cannot come. In the cloak of the night the hardest of defences cannot help but falter slightly, so _brave_ they are to have convinced every fibre of your own perfection. It is _them_, it's always them when fault is dealt, because it has to be. Except the one you love becomes only that in the dark.

"He never calls me on it," he murmurs.

"I think sometimes I need someone that will. I mean he does, sometimes…but not on the big stuff, and like in a way that's just reassurance. Or a look, he has this look like 'Really, Christian?' and I'm soothed. Sometimes I think he just needs to yell. Dump the gentle words and the looks and just yell."

He groans;

"Except then I'm just sorting my shit out by getting him to change aren't I?"

Jane sighs, watching as his head enters his hands.

"I think I'll get the wine."

* * *

><p>"You know I think I've spent more time in the past six months complaining, telling him what's wrong with him or what more he needs to do, than actually telling him I love him."<p>

The glass clinks down with more force than is necessary and Jane worries for her new purchases.

"I mean I thought wanting a kid with him would say that…but it seemed to do the opposite, make him feel less secure, make him feel further away from me."

"When me and Ian were trying to adopt the whole thing was essentially his fault but…I know I side-lined him, a bit."

"Did I though? I 'fort he was there with me. I mean, I guess yeah I lead…"

Christian reaches for the bottle.

"You get so crazy with it you forget the person that's actually there. I mean my person was Ian so that was part of the problem but…I'm assuming that wasn't the same for you and Syed."

"If anything it's the opposite. I wanted a family yeah 'cos I wanted a family but…I wanted _us_ to be a family. This permanent thing that would always be there. Yet somehow I'm doing it by ignoring what he says, according to him ignoring what he didn't, and actually telling him that he isn't worth giving up being a father for. The whole thing was about us but in the end it was just about me…maybe it always was."

"We all get self-involved sometimes…"

"It was all for us though, I meant it to be. I think I managed to make the man who is worth everything feel like he was barely worth anything. When you're putting your arm round them, telling them to come home you never think it'll come to that."

Christian pauses, an image of beginning and sacrifice cutting through him.

"I don't know how it came to that."


	13. Chapter Twelve

**For vf and Poppy who wouldn't let it lie (and l_b who did). For anyone who's reviewed, right back to HLAM. For those who were there at the first kiss and still there at hamster hair. It's been awful, it's been wonderful. Fingers crossed for a fitting, loving end tonight. But first to end this… **

* * *

><p>Syed stares, the flash of the television and its noise murmuring past him. He put it on because that's what people do, or so he tells himself. He wasn't sure what other people did, though he had always thought they made it look easy. It wasn't easy. He'd never found it that. He couldn't have a friend without falling onto him and pain being screeched in the street.<p>

He thinks about calling Munir to attempt an explanation. He doesn't need to realise he has no explanation to give and Munir isn't the man he wants to call. The other man couldn't be of more insignificance, despite feeling disturbingly significant at the time. Everything he has done and everything he has felt has revolved around another. That truth is either beautiful or damaging and Syed can't decide which. He could try and avoid it, and maybe he should, but the fact wasn't shifting and at this point he didn't even know if he should hope that it would. He knows that he doesn't want to admit it, because admitting it would be of little good. They aren't together now and nothing much could alter that.

He sighs, rubbing his hands through his hair. He pities himself slightly that his fingers cannot even scrunch without thinking of the times someone else's were there.

The door's hit and he turns to rid the thoughts. 'Munir' he mouths, as if he was still sitting on a sofa with someone else there. He considers ignoring it but his legs are throwing themselves up. Another act of masochism he wonders as he reaches for the handle, and shakes his head at the thought.

"What…"

His hand slips down the door.

"What are you doing here?"

Christian lifts his lip in that way he sometimes does, that doesn't produce words or let his eyes suggest a smile. He has something behind them though, and there will always be times when they both cling to that.

"Hi."

Syed stares and says slowly,

"_Hi." _

"I wanted to come."

"Okay."

Christian glances past the door.

"Is he here?"

"What? No…"

"Okay," he breathes, as if talking to himself. "I was ready for a cock fight. That's good, I wasn't really in the mood. I'd win obviously but –"

"Have you been drinking?"

"No. Three glasses."

Syed shakes his head,

"What, you went out, got bored? Thought you'd knock on my door? Should I expect to find Roxy living in my bins in the morning, sleeping it off?"

"Roxy? I wasn't with Roxy. I was with Jane."

"But she's miles away now, I thought…"

"I went to see her." He adds, "After."

"Why Christian?"

He pauses, looking back at him.

"I needed to talk to her because I needed to talk to you."

* * *

><p>"I like your sofa."<p>

Syed glances right. There's a foot space between them and his eyes get caught in the gap.

"It's just beige…"

"Beige can be nice."

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry about earlier."

Christian looks up, "Accusing you. Scrapping in the street."

"It's okay –"

"No, it isn't. Besides, like I can talk. We both know I've been round the block enough for the block to have been re-built and named after me. Hypocrisy isn't a good look for me."

"You're allowed to feel it. I would do."

"And you have?"

It surprises Syed; the question. He can't get the words out to answer but the silence says he doesn't need to.

"I don't really do guilt, you know that," Christian says slowly. "Or shame. Definitely don't do that, especially with sex. I'm a slapper sometimes. That's it. And faithful. That too. But I'm sorry. If seeing me with other men so soon after hurt you."

He stares into him.

"I never meant that. It was never because I didn't love you. I'd like to say it was never to hurt you but… From the first time I did it to the last, I am sorry."

Syed swallows and he looks at him. He remembers what it is to see him, to have him there and, if things could pretend to be normal, touch him. It's an awful memory in a way. He remembers what it is to have him and he can't forget he doesn't anymore.

"I don't like this. Being apart."

Christian says quietly,

"Me either."

It feels sad, suddenly. It always did but in that minute it feels simply sad. Anger seems pointless and pretence pathetic. It's just sad suddenly and neither of them really knows what to do with that.

"I'm not sure how it got to this," Syed finds himself saying. "I love you. I remember when that was enough."

Christian smiles slowly, a laugh in his throat.

"That sounds like something I'd say."

"Well you did, I think. Quite a few times. Back in the days when talking to me was a bit like banging your head against a brick wall and I'd end up saying something about disappointment and my mother."

"How is she?"

"What?"

"Your mother? She's stared at me a few times in the market but she didn't gloat or anything. I imagined a hernia building."

"She's not like you think she is, you know. She wants me to be happy." He pauses. "Her idea of that just doesn't always match yours."

"And I always had a pretty strong idea of what that was."

"Maybe. But you were right, weren't you?"

"Until I was wrong."

They sit.

"Y'know…" Christian sighs, breaking the thoughts. "I had this toy when I was little, when I was nine or something. I was thinking of it earlier, on the tube. Dunno why, seeing Jane maybe. I'd wanted this thing forever, it felt like forever anyway, and then one day I got it. I had it. I found it in a charity shop, stole it technically, but there you go. I'd asked for it for Christmas the year before but my dad hadn't let me have it."

He pauses to clarify,

"It was a doll. Not even an action man, though that's pretty gay in itself…a girl's one, big hair and a dress you could attach stickers to. I fucking loved that thing. Jane said I loved it too much, or wrong, I think she said I was 'loving it wrong', yeah, I remember that. I did love it, I took it everywhere. I had wanted it forever and I took it everywhere, dragged it up trees and put it in microwaves to give it dinner, I adored it. Then one day its head fell off, just fell clean off. I loved it and I broke it. Its head fell off because I loved it so much. If I was smarter, there'd be a metaphor in that."

Syed finds his fingers, etched to the sofa, stretching slightly right.

He says quietly,

"My head's still on."

"No thanks to me."

"I don't know about that."

"Besides," he coughs. "You're plenty smart."

"I do stupid things though. We both do. Why do we do that? I used to think if I found someone I could actually stand to spend my life with, I'd do it right."

Christian rubs his hand over his head.

"I really fucked this up."

"You weren't the only one."

"I lost you though, even before I kicked you out. It's like I lost you but you were still there and I didn't even notice."

"You never lost me, never… I just… Things were difficult and I…I was afraid. I didn't know where I was supposed to be heading or whether I could do. Whether I should. I didn't know what to say. I rarely know what to say."

"To me?"

"To anyone. Well, not all the time but… I could say it's a Masood thing, and it is really. But it's me. It's as much me. I don't know how to say the things I think and worse…"

Syed pauses, shaking his head.

"Tell me. Please."

He looks at him.

"I'm afraid of saying it. I can talk to you, I can talk to you more than I can talk to anyone but as much of the time, I'm… I'm afraid that what I feel…or what I am…isn't right. That I'll disappoint. That I'm not going to be good enough."

"Did I make you feel that way?"

"No. I don't know sometimes, the past year…"

"I never meant to, you know. You never stopped being what I wanted, needed. How could you? It's you."

He reaches through the space, slipping his hand through hair and warmth.

"It's you," he whispers. "I loved you, I never stopped. I…I stopped loving you properly. I stopped making you smile. I stopped making you feel worth something. Maybe because I was afraid I wasn't worth enough. I don't know. I honestly don't Sy."

"You were always enough. Enough isn't even the word."

Christian's thumb rubs once on the skin by his ear and it slides down, silently.

"I forgot what it was like to be without you," Syed says, looking down. "Which is stupid, because we've probably been apart more than we've been together, but there we go. I remembered pretty quickly. It's…"

"Quieter?"

Syed laughs,

"Yeah. Quieter… I don't really like the quiet. I never did."

He looks up at him.

"I go to tell you things and you don't answer. For a second I'm about to moan that you're not listening but then I remember…you're just not there."

"Routine I guess."

"Is that what we are? Routine?"

He stares at him, gently.

"Syed Masood. We are so far from routine, it isn't even funny. We are…"

Christian looks at the face that has been etched inside of him from the first moment the lips touched his.

"We are that thing that other people dream of, or they would, if they had a clue what they were missing. We are that thing that kills you when it goes wrong, that actually feels like you have no idea what you are gonna do, but it only feels that way because what you had was…"

"Has it gone? That thing we had?"

Christian looks down.

"I remember when you would walk around the flat in a bed sheet."

"What?"

"Or you'd get up for water and pull your jeans on. You'd hop. The phone would ring later or time would just pass and you'd get this look on your face like the world was ending a little bit and you didn't want to have to tell me again."

Syed closes his eyes.

"I'll never forget the day you first wandered around the flat stark naked…and you asked me if we had any fabric softener."

He laughs.

"I remember thinking, well, my first thought was 'Christ, he _is_ stunning', but I thought…he's home. He's free and so many levels of glorious. I just thought…this is it. I always remember that."

"I don't even remember it like it was an event, like something you can remember. It just happened. Like it was meant to."

"No phone rang, no horrible look came. You were just there."

"I never wanted to leave. Not really."

"Then or now?"

Syed waits, looking at him.

"Ever."

They move slowly. It surprises them how close their lips are, how little space there is for them to cross. It would surprise them if they were thinking, but there are no thoughts for this. Christian's hand is on Syed's hair and a hand finds the groove of the broad back in which it sits. Their hearts match and they breathe.

"I normally fix thing," Christian says, still holding on. "I like to fix things but I…"

"We'll fix it. I don't know how to do this, but I want to. I know what I want."

"We can fix it right?"

"It's rented."

Christian pauses.

"The sofa," Syed adds. "I didn't want to buy it."

"I got rid of ours."

"Oh…"

"We can get a new one," Christian murmurs. "If you want."

Syed looks at him.

"We can talk about it."


End file.
